


From North to Uttermost South

by AmethystTribble



Series: Everlasting Song [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Love, But Celegorm sure does, F/M, Feanor is 'Sir Not Appearing in this Fic', Gen, I want this to have a happy ending too, Identity Issues, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Unresolved Feelings, in which I am mean to everyone but not as mean as Tolkien and Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-07-04 19:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 114,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble
Summary: Across the Seven Kingdoms, Maedhros Tully, Maglor Sand, Celegorm Snow, Caranthir Lannister, Curufin Baratheon, and Amrod and Amras Arryn awake.After the death of Jon Arryn, they are caught in the middle of massive inter-kingdom conflict. How are the sons of Feanor, but not Feanor Blackfyre, to maintain loyalties to their old and new families when they are scattered from the north to the uttermost south of Westeros? There's a crown up for grabs, several, in fact, again. There's an army marching south, comprised of twisted, wrong corruptions of their race. Again. There is no one who's wholly right and no one who's wholly wrong and a lot of impossible decisions. Again.Maybe this time, though, the sons of Feanor might just win the game of thrones.(I recommend reading 'Everlasting Song' first in order to understand the set up to this multi-chapter retelling of A Game of Thrones where Feanorions ruin everything and the plot of ASOIAF gets wrecked)





	1. Caranthir I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the worlds, characters, or plots of JRR Tolkien's or George RR Martin's works. 
> 
> Also, massive, massive thanks to my beta, she_who_recs! This would not be coherent without her.

_Everything always has to happen_ , Caranthir Lannister groused, backside sour, teeth gritted, and face the color of a Tully’s hair, _during the worst time of the year._

There was a two and a half month period, between February and late April, where Joffrey was the same age as Curufin. It was when the miserable brat was at his most insufferable, when he felt bold enough to say, outside of his father’s earshot, things to the nature of, “I’m old enough to be the Crown Prince. Maybe I can be king.” 

Curufin was never one to simply let Joffrey’s snideness pass, but the younger boy made so many comments, especially during the worst months of the year, that some things had to be let go. But as the royal procession resolutely marched north, Curufin was struggling. And he had been for seven months, trying to assimilate the new knowledge that he had once been Curufinwë Feanorion. 

And the Crown Prince now remembered another upstart little brother who thought he could be king. 

Curufin beat Joffrey’s face so blue you could still see the bruises fading, two months later. Cersei was apoplectic, locked Curufin in his room for a week, while the treasonous Joffrey cried crocodile tears. The punishment probably would have been longer– _or maybe even have taken place in the dungeons_ , Caranthir, who Cersei did lock down there once, thought bitterly– but King Robert intervened. “Boys fight! Leave Curufin be, at least he has a backbone,” he grumbled, and the prince was saved the worst of his mother’s rage.

But the whole debacle meant that Joffrey was still sore and smarting, at the same time that he was emboldened by their coincidental age. He sniped and needled and made a nuisance of himself the entire journey to the North. And Curufin couldn't even properly put the snivelling brat in his place, much to his compounding frustration, because after the fight Cersei’s already protective hand grew even heavier. The Hound was under orders to strike even Crown Prince Curufin if he try to harm Joffrey. That was fine, frustrating, but fine. Caranthir was authorized to kill anyone who laid a hand on his charge. More importantly, he was willing to kill anyone who tried to bring harm to his little brother.

The Hound was appointed Joffrey’s sworn shield two years ago, when it became apparent someone was going to kill the brat if he wasn’t afforded extra protection. Caranthir swore to be Curufin’s only at the New Year. But it still meant that all four of them were at each other’s throats, waiting. It was as if a wildfire was waiting to be lit, a dragon tickled.

Caranthir was going to resurrect Jon Arryn for dying and kill him again. Or, more likely, based on what he’d heard from Ambarussa, he was going to track down whoever murdered him, and slaughter them for picking such an inconvenient time to do the deed. The worst time of the year! Anyone in the Red Keep should know that. 

He had never been so relieved to see a holdfast in his life. The dreary, drab, overly practical Winterfell suddenly looked like the most comfortable and welcoming castle in all Westeros. Caranthir even heaved a dramatic sigh of relief, before turning his head to try and catch Curufin’s eye. He must be exhausted too.

Curufin didn’t spare a glance at Caranthir, though. His gaze was still locked on Winterfell, his mind a thousand miles away. Naturally. Caranthir felt the same way, though the wound was no longer as fresh and intense.

Celegorm was in that castle.

The echoes of his past life were dull and muddled, his all-too-Mannish memory fading that which was so vivid twelve years ago. Now, Morifinwë’s life was like a watercolor that came into sharp relief at odd times, remembered as if it was the plot of a poem that became all too personal at random moments. The sensation was more an inkling than a real feeling that he remembered, but that bitterness still laid there, dormant. Caranthir could recall all those years he and Curufin spent fighting for Tyelkormo’s attention. 

Curufin won, for reasons Caranthir understood better now, after having spent the better part of twelve years watching the boy’s stupid hide. But Carnistir never really forgave the two, Curufinwë for stealing his dearest friend from him and Tylekormo for abandoning him in favor of Curvo. Both of them, leaving him behind. The only brother without someone to watch his back.

Now, Caranthir tried to ignore that niggling fear that this time it would be Curufin he lost to another brother.

The prince hadn’t been the same since the awakening. Filled with pain and doubt, not the friend and kinsman he previously knew so well. These things take time though, Caranthir tried to remind himself, as he rode through the gates of Winter Town. It took him almost a whole year just to speak, after all. 

_You wanted this_ , he scolded himself. But it was easier to long for someone comfortable when you were alone, than to actually gain a Curufinwë once you’d grown to love Curufin Baratheon. 

Caranthir clenched his jaw, and resolutely focused his imperious glare on the people lined up to greet them. As he dismounted, he blew a breath through his teeth. “It doesn’t matter what happens next,” he whispered to himself. _It doesn’t._

He looked to the prince, who would go off to help his mother from the carriage in but a few seconds, and finally they met eyes. Curufin was a boy of twelve, with the memories of a murderer with a grown son. And Caranthir watch his face fall, vulnerable for half a second, watched his hand twitch like he wanted to reach out for comfort, before everything went to steel. He turned away, and Caranthir barely had time to strike out, grabbing Curufin’s shoulder. He gave a short squeeze, before pulling back like the interaction never even happened, swallowing his own desperate desire to just take his brother and… Well, Caranthir didn’t know. Just find some way to make all of harsh confusion go away. 

He watched Curufin’s shoulders slump, briefly, under his touch, before he pulled them back and tight again. It would have to be a victory, Caranthir resolved, even if it felt like a failure.

Resolutely, Caranthir moved into line, away from the royal family and towards the rest of the protection retinue, the Kingsguard, the Hound, Ilyn Payne. 

They were a grim bunch, Jaime once laughed, full of scowls and cold glares. “And you, little cousin are the worst,” he said, “and here I thought a fresh-faced youth like you would do us some good.”

Caranthir the Dark, as he was once known, merely sneered harder at Jaime. The insufferable man loved mocking Caranthir under the guise of good natured teasing, and it rankled Caranthir to no end. His cheeks would turn a blistering red in rage, when faced with Jaime, which just brought more mockery down upon his head, and it was all the more frustrating because Jaime never even looked at Lancel and Tyrek, probably couldn’t tell them apart! He paid no attention to any of the other Lannister cousins, either, not even Cleos who was closer to the man’s age.

He gave special, negative attention to Caranthir, though, and the boy couldn’t help but think it was because he spent so much time with Curufin. Because, Cersei hated their relationship, and Jaime followed at Cersei’s cues in all things.

In Winterfell, the kinsmen positioned themselves at opposite ends of the line of guardsmen, carefully looking in different directions. Jaime was watching the royal family, the king and Lord Stark were hugging, but Caranthir let his gaze wander. He was looking for the only person in this barren wasteland he actually wanted to see.

And there he was. The same random, shining white light amid a sea of red and black and brown that Caranthir remembered. 

Ser Celegorm Snow stood against a wall, well away from the Starks, hidden behind a maester and some burly men, arms crossed and slumped. His head was down, studiously ignoring the grandiose display of the royal family, while the darker boy next to him stared openly. Celegorm looked almost exactly as Caranthir remembered, he simply seemed a little younger and he lacked the fineries that used to characterize the sons of Feanor.

Not to mention, his ears were round.

Caranthir watched with bated breath as Celegorm flicked his eyes around, and gasped audibly when their gazes met. _Exactly the same…_ and then Celegorm smiled. He grinned, that massive, bared teeth smile, and stood up straight so fast he disturbed the boy next to him. He mouthed something, one word. 

_‘Moryo’_

Caranthir’s heart stopped, briefly, and he fought to say still and in line next to Boros Blount. Maedhros had said Celegorm didn’t remember, that seemingly nothing could awaken him. Caranthir had come to Winterfell prepared to face a hedge knight that didn’t know him from any other Lannister. He and Curufin even morbidly joked that they would have to request the minstrels play nothing but songs by Maglor Sand, in the hopes that it would twinge a cord in their brother. 

But Celegorm smiled, and Caranthir couldn’t be bothered, too much at least, to worry about the how or the why or the when. Instead, he gave a smile, a small, hesitant but entirely true thing, back.

King Robert and Lord Stark walked past their field of vision at just that moment, blocking Celegorm from view briefly, and then Caranthir watched everyone break up. Cersei promptly made her exit after giving a brief greeting to Lady Stark, taking Myrcella, Tommen, and Jaime with her. The Hound dutifully went to follow after Joffrey, who was off to anywhere where Curufin wasn’t, no doubt sneering at everything in sight. Curufin loitered, though, and Caranthir caught his eyes flickering over to Celegorm, once, and then to him. He went to the task of engaging with Robb Stark admirably though, because even if the boy looked like he was about to jump out of his skin by making small talk, one couldn’t engage with a random bastard knight before knowing the Stark heir himself.

Caranthir didn’t have that problem, and very little sympathy to spare. He walked over towards Celegorm, trying not to make his steps too quick or his excitement too obvious.

Celegorm, apparently, did not feel the same need to curb himself.

He bounded across the yard towards Caranthir, all but throwing his taller body over the man who was his younger brother in another life. Awkwardly but earnestly reaching up to grasp at Celegorm’s shoulders, Caranthir buried his head in his shoulder. He could hear soft, gasping breaths next to his right ear, and he clenched his own teeth against the tide of emotion. They stayed in each other’s arms for far longer than they should have and his ribs were about to crack, but Caranthir couldn’t bring himself to care. 

After a few moments though, his eyes still firmly shut, Caranthir could feel people watching them.

He pulled back, his entire face flush with the effort to control the tightness in his throat, but Celegorm kept his hands on Caranthir’s shoulders. His hair was long, Caranthir noticed, kept back in a messy contraption of leather ties and pins. Maedhros never cut his hair to the appropriate Westerosi length either, and the realization nearly did send Caranthir to tears.

He put even more space between them. Then, he levelled a hit against Celegorm’s stomach, causing him squawk and to double over.

“You massive imbecile.” Caranthir fought the urge to list all the reasons he was an imbecile, starting with taking so long to remember, before leading towards never visiting King’s Landing, and ending with making him watch as Dior cut a massive cavity in his torso. Caranthir swallowed his need to cry again, blinking the tears from his eyes, and tried to wipe away the image of Tyelkormo’s eviscerated body tumbling down a flight of steps, the same scene that haunted so many of his childhood nightmares.

Instead, he focused on Celegorm, alive and fresh-faced, the wide, toothy grin he turned towards Caranthir from where he was clutching his stomach, full of simple joy and love. Tyelkormo never looked that way near the end, eyes haunted and smile a hollow thing of nothing but bloodlust and self-loathing. Celegorm, though, stood up straight with a bright laughing wheeze, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Caranthir closed his eyes from the blinding sight in order to not break down completely.

Celegorm Snow was whole and hale and happy. He was Caranthir’s brother again, and there was none of the years of fighting and blood and comparison and twisted loyalties between them anymore. Only intense, full-body relief and joy.

_We have our family back, we have our family back._ Father was dead. Mother was gone, lost from them, and the same was probably true of Tyelperinquar. They were also scattered across a continent, lost and alone from the north to the uttermost south.

But Caranthir clasped Celegorm’s hand on his shoulder. They’d been here before, between Thargelion, Himlad, and Nargothrond, five-hundred years of struggle and loss, the physical link between brothers the only thing that meant there was decency within themselves and the world. That connection, one small show of camaraderie, acting as the only tangible thing of consequence. And by the Seven, by the Valar, by the stars in the sky and the ground they swore their fates upon, the sons of Feanor were united that way once more.

And there was no cosmic Doom or Oath to stop them now.

Caranthir took a shuddering breath, shaking himself to dilute the rush of emotion coursing through him. They were still in public, even if Celegorm showed no signs of embarrassment for the tears tracks on his cheeks. But Caranthir noticed the same boy that had been dogging at Celegorm’s side staring at them, and he didn’t doubt that Curufin was about combust if he wasn’t taken away from the strangers soon. So, he nodded his head over Celegorm’s shoulder, towards dark-haired boy, in order to distract from his own swirling and confused thoughts and feelings.

Celegorm took the bait, turning to look before dragging his newly found brother back towards the castle wall and the boy. Caranthir took a quick moment to glance at Curufin. He was staring at them, poorly concealed longing in his eyes, face so miserable and body so taunt it was a wonder he hadn’t just fallen to pieces. Robb Stark seemed to have noticed, too.

But Caranthir was drawn from watching the two lordlings, and the little Starks scattered around their heels, by Celegorm’s insistent hand. And then his voice, booming in Caranthir’s ear, something he’d forgotten about and hadn’t missed. That’s right, Caranthir thought without any real bite, watching his brother bounce and gesticulate, _you are annoying, aren’t you, Tyelko?_

“Jon! Caranthir, this is my cousin, Jon Snow. Jon, this is Caranthir… Caranthir…” he trailed off, and honestly Caranthir could have killed him. Technically, they weren’t supposed to know each other, even if they’d well and truly blown that option. But to not even know his name? After spending four years travelling around the entire Seven Kingdoms with Maedhros Tully? Unacceptable.

Caranthir fought a sigh.

“Lannister,” he intervened, “Ser Caranthir Lannister, sworn shield of Crown Prince Curufin.” He held out a hand for the bastard to take, which Jon did, hesitantly.

“Exactly!” Celegorm cried, lapse of judgement already forgotten. “Lannister and I met at a tourney in the Westerlands a few years ago when I unhorsed him.” Caranthir just hoped Jon Snow didn’t figure out that he’d only been knighted a few months ago. Thankfully, Caranthir had never been much of a rider, whether as a Man or an Elf, and the possibility of him losing a joust wasn’t far-fetched. In fact, it was almost a guarantee.

“So you are kin to the queen?” they heard from the right. Robb Stark, trailed by a tall youth around Celegorm’s age and what must have been two of his younger siblings. Curufin stood at his side, practically vibrating from tension and a good head shorter than the heir to Winterfell. Celegorm’s grin, if possible, grew even larger. Caranthir interjected before he could put his foot in his mouth again.

“Yes, I am. Her cousin. My father is Kevan Lannister. I’m closer in age to the prince, though, than her.”

“Oh! So like Arafinwë and… uh…”

“Maitimo, yes,” Caranthir hissed quickly. “But that is of little consequence. Excuse me Lord Stark, I don’t believe I’ve properly met your companions?”

Caranthir could sense the tension from the Starks instantly. Both Snows even tensed. What, oh what, had he said wrong so early?

“I am not the Lord Stark,” Robb Stark said quietly, previously jovial face going harsh in true Northern fashion. “That is my father’s title and I have no claim to it. Simply Robb is fine, thank you. This is my father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, heir of Pyke. And my younger siblings, Arya and Bran.”

“Right,” Caranthir muttered, cursing Stark stiffness and their famed honor, and nodded to the Greyjoy and gave a cursory glance to the children. “Curufin, you– ”

“If you’re a Lannister, why do you have black hair?”

“Arya!” her brother scolded, while the Snow child tried to hid his snickers. Caranthir simply levelled his nigh infamous scowl at the girl, leaning down to her level. She didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know,” Caranthir said, tone deep and heavy, “if your brothers are Starks why do they have red hair?”

“My mother’s a Tully.”

“My mother’s a Swyft. I don’t suppose you know what that house is, but they have black hair.”

She scrunched up her imperious little nose, and Caranthir fought the urge to grab the child by the ear and scrub out her mouth, that same way he had with Curufin in this life and Ambarussa in the last. “But you’re a Lannister. I thought all Lannisters have to have yellow hair.”

“Prince Curufin doesn’t.”

“But he’s a Baratheon.”

“And your brothers are Starks. Funny how these things work out, isn’t it, child?” 

She stuck her tongue out at him! 

Arya Stark stuck her tongue out at Caranthir, causing both him and her brother to blush furiously and squawk in indignation. Celegorm laughed, though, his whole body shaking with his guffaws, and so did Jon Snow and the Greyjoy. Even Curufin snickered, just a little, like the impetuous boy he was, no doubt remembering all the punishments he’d gotten for the same affront.

And Caranthir couldn’t be too angry, seeing Curvo smile, those dark, deep circles under his eyes looking a little less heavy. So Caranthir grit his teeth, rolled his eyes, and tried not to let the small child rankle him. Even though she already had. Bloody children.

Robb Stark had his little sister by the back of the neck, and was scolding her something fierce. He reminded Caranthir of Nelyo a bit, wrangling children like a particularly burly and red Septa. Which, he supposed, made sense. They were blood, an odd and stinging fact to remember. 

But as Celegorm threw his arm around his shoulders, Caranthir's gaze caught his grey eyes, the kind that might get mistaken for Stark color. But if one looked close enough they’d see that Celegorm Snow’s eyes were the same shade as Caranthir Lannister’s; Crown Prince Curufin Baratheon’s eyes, too. And maybe that person might see the same thing from the unnerving stares of Lord Arryn’s twin sons, and in the eyes of a bastard bard from Dorne. They might make a connection to the much romanced gaze of Maedhros the Magnificent, who single-handedly turned the tide during the Storming of Seaguard.

What a strange connection between seven men who were not from the same family line.

Caranthir relaxed, just a little, and smirked. 

“Stark,” he said, causing the boy to shoot up a miserable look. Caranthir let the pause sit, just to bother him a little. “No harm done. Now, I don’t know about the prince, but I’m exhausted and in need of a long, long break from anyone’s company but my own.”

“Please,” Curufin stressed, the first word he had spoken. His eyes were on Celegorm.

“Naturally, I’ll– ” Stark started before Celegorm butted in.

“I’ll take them to their rooms,” he said, standing up tall. It was odd, how Celegorm actually did look like an authority, looming above the heads of children and adolescents, his sword at his side and his knight’s crest sewn on his doublet. It was a wolfhound actually, instead of the standard Stark wolf. It looked like Huan, startling so, and the image wore a collar with a dangling star. One, Caranthir noticed, that had eight points. _When did you design that, brother?_

Caranthir drew his gaze away from Celegorm’s crest in order to grab Curufin’s arm. Celegorm was pulling them away, throwing reassurances over his shoulder, “I promise I know where! I asked Lord Vayon, earlier. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t know where Caranthir’s room was?”

He resolutely ignored any and all questions regarding the crown prince, but as Caranthir and Curufin both followed Celegorm without protest or complaint there was little Stark could do. Even though it wasn’t as inconspicuous as they probably should have been, Caranthir closed his eyes and let Celegorm drag him along, wrapping an arm around Curufin. He couldn’t regret it.

There was nothing for them to do now, except be grateful.

Wherever Celegorm led them, Caranthir seriously doubted it was Curufin’s room. Maybe this was where they lodged the knights like him, but the open, well-worn feel of the hall made him doubt that. No, they were headed to Celegorm’s room. This was a wing for family. Not the main family, but rooms that were kept aired and fresh for visiting kin who might come by often. The wing for bastards they didn’t want staining the true-born family’s halls.

_Damn, he doesn’t have any clue where our rooms are_. Caranthir would have to hunt someone down so that they could get changed later. So that Cersei didn’t throw a fit when she found her son missing. _Great_.

Suddenly, they were shepherded through a wooden door, and Caranthir had to jerk to get out of the way as Curufin practically leapt into Celegorm’s arms. He was so much smaller than their older brother that his entire lean body fit in Celegorm’s grasp. Curufin’s face, which hadn’t yet known a razor, was tucked safely into his shoulder as Celegorm leaned down to envelope him. The numerous stray pieces of Celegorm’s silver hair shielded Curufin’s face from Caranthir’s view, but he didn’t doubt the boy was crying. 

Celegorm was.

Swallowing the emotion the sight dredged up, _relief, joy, jealousy_ , Caranthir swept his eyes around Celegorm’s room.

It was sparse. Nothing of value adorned the walls and there didn’t seem to be any personal effects either. No drawings, no trinkets, no strewn clothes. But there was a pack, a large one, resting against the wall, next to the door. Tyelkormo had a habit, even in Valinor, of carrying everything he cared about on his person, especially once he joined the Hunt of Oromë. He was simply a person always on the move; there was never a city or camp that could hold him for long. Walls, to Celegorm, weren’t places to store things, riches or objects with emotional value or even people. Walls and roofs were simply the preferences of others.

He glanced over to see that Celegorm now held Curufin’s face in his hands and they were speaking quietly. Caranthir averted his gaze, letting it fall on the desk, one that was messy and used and personal. He walked over. Who was his brother in this life? Who did he write to? A girl, Maedhros, knightley friends? His parents?

A Snow who belonged to the Starks, yes, but beyond that Caranthir didn’t actually know. He caught his breath when he saw the half-written letter addressed, _Dear Mother._

_I preface this note by saying I will be by to visit you soon, most certainly before I head South again. I’m tarrying in Winterfell for two reasons, the first being the one that you’re already worried about, I don’t doubt. A procession has come from King’s Landing, the entire royal family in tow, and is likely arriving the very day I write this. I know, I know, Mother, and I do promise I’ve not been hit on the head and that I have indeed listened to every word you say. But I have friends among the large retinue the King and Queen take with them, very dear ones. You cannot begin to wonder how much they mean to me, nearly as much as Lord Tully, and I must see them._

_Maybe I’ll bring them to meet you! I imagine I’ll go back South with them, and though I’m not sorry for myself, I am sorry to separate from you again. I promise, as well, that while everyone is in Winterfell, I will be careful and not draw attention, though that is sometimes hard. I’ll try to keep to the forests, Mother, gathering all the food these Southron nobles will no doubt eat!_

_The second reason, the one I didn’t come to visit you earlier for and why I’ve been too busy to write, is that Bran and Jon have–_

It finished there, the last word a scratch, as if he was called away from his desk while writing. Already half out of his seat before even putting down the pen. Caranthir smiled, something rather bitter-sweet. 

Celegorm had a mother. Which shouldn’t have been an odd thought, Caranthir had a mother, after all. One who was nothing like Nerdanel, but good all the same. 

Dorna was a gentle, soft woman, one who enjoyed poetry and being a mother. In his childhood, she could often be found seated on sunlit couches reading the day away, at least one of her children nestled against her side. Caranthir could remember, fondly, the days when Father was at work with Uncle Tywin in the his study, and their family would sequester themselves in the Casterly Rock library. Lancel taught Janei her first letters there, seated on the rug, both of their limbs sprawled. The twins typically sat on either side of Mother, curled up and listening to her soft words as she read aloud. Caranthir found himself at the table with Tyrion, always, whiling away hours going through science and historical texts, trying to find answers to whatever hypothetical they’d posed that day. 

Those were good memories. The ones that made this life feel more real than the last, because Caranthir forgot sometimes. He spent so much time trying to love and care for Curufin, Amrod, and Amras, he couldn’t be bothered to watch after his other brothers. Lancel was in Winterfell right now. They fought most of the time, and Caranthir was suddenly seized with the thought that Celegorm might have siblings.

He knew, in only the most abstract way, that Lady Stark was Maedhros’s sister.

Where was Celegorm’s father, and who was he? Lord Stark himself, one of the brothers?

Caranthir turned to regard his own brothers, all these thoughts buzzing in his head, and found them laughing. Curufin laughed so rarely, even before the memories came back to him. He didn’t write to his mother like that, didn’t sit in libraries with Cersei. But she was doting and loved her children more than air, and Caranthir knew Curufin had been trying to reconcile the rough and hard-working Nerdanel with prim and shrewd Cersei. Whether he loved the mother that betrayed them for all the right reasons or the mother who schemed in the name of her family for all the wrongs ones more. 

Trying to balance a love for Feanor and another father was even harder. Caranthir knew that intimately. It was impossible, when the Elf had been so grand, so intelligent and skilled, and so very flawed… but not loving his children enough was never one of those faults. Kevan could not match Feanor, not in any field. He was a good father. But he wasn’t great.

Was the conflict easier for a bastard?

Tapping his fingers on the desk, Caranthir tried to put that out of his mind. It was unimportant. For now. 

Instead, he looked at his brothers again and decided, as they were talking and Celegorm’s hands were moving around wildly, that he’d given them enough time. Caranthir whistled. 

“I do mean to interrupt, and we have things to talk about before we go to the feast. We can all talk later, but we have to get our story straight.”

“Right,” Curufin said, tiny and trying so hard to project the same power he could as an adult. “If you are both ‘friends’ you need to know certain things about each other, and do I know Celegorm Snow? Oh, what will Mother think, we can’t know each other.”

Celegorm snorted, simply shrugged, and walked across the room to throw himself down on the rumpled furs on his bed. He lounged. “Yeah, I don’t imagine anyone will be too pleased if a no-name bastard knows the crown prince. I think not, Curvo, sorry. Ser Lannister and I met at a tourney. Simple as that.”

“It’s not. I was only knighted a few months– ”

“Calm down, Moryo. Please. We don’t need a story, not for anyone but Jon. I don’t intend to spend much time with the royal family, or in Winterfell at all while you’re here. I’ll ride south with you, though, whether or not Uncle Ned goes.”

Caranthir leaned against the desk, raised an eyebrow. “Why,” he stressed, speaking slowly to get Celegorm’s attention, “are you frightened to be seen by people from King’s Landing? The Royal family in general?” His fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk, and he tried to study his brother’s astonished face. 

He watched as Celegorm narrowed his eyes and flicked his own gaze towards the letter next to Caranthir’s palm.

“Reading other people’s personal letters is rude, Moryo.”

Caranthir shrugged. Before he could reply, Curufin spoke. 

“Maedhros says you refused to set foot in King’s Landing as a squire. That it was part of the conditions for Lord Stark, as well. So?” Curufin’s eyes were slits, his mind obviously turning like a mill, and he went to pull Celegorm’s desk chair out. He sat in it carefully, all measured grace and restrained power. He and Caranthir both levelled their stares at Celegorm.

Celegorm flinched.

“I do not care for you both getting along. At all.” Celegorm flopped, let his weight fall and stared at the ceiling. “It’s really not that interesting a story. Have you heard about what happened to Elia Martell’s children?” He didn’t wait for them to reply.

“Well, afterwards, Uncle Ned came to my mother. He told her to remain as anonymous as possible. Keep quiet, stay out of the eyes of anyone Southron. My mother has purple eyes, you know? I don’t, but I guess the silver hair just skipped a generation. The same way it did last time. With Miriel. I’ve not asked. Mother doesn’t want to talk about it, my grandmother and her husband are dead, and I don’t need to know the specifics. But it’s dangerous to have Targaryen blood in Westeros, and the Lannisters and the king have proved they aren’t afraid to kill children. So, I– shit.”

Celegorm sat up.

“Sorry,” he whispered, eyes wide and watery. “I’m sorry, that’s your family.”

Caranthir stilled, too much so. He could hear his own breathing, the beating of his heart. He opened his mouth, finally, not quite sure what was going to come out, but Curufin spoke first. 

“It’s fine,” Curufin all but spat. “They are not our true family. Our father does not kill children.” 

Caranthir watched Celegorm close his eyes and they both knew Amrod hung heavy in the air between them. Of course, Curufin was also young at the time. Maybe he didn’t think of Ambarussa as children. But Celegorm and Caranthir had. 

And Father wasn’t actually the one to kill Amrod, at least, not technically. That was Celegorm, shooting an arrow through their screaming baby brother’s chest. Slaying him, as one would an injured animal. 

Caranthir always thought, afterwards, that if Celegorm had any faith in their oath and mission in Beleriand at all– and he might not have, as he was one of Oromë’s subjects– he certainly didn’t after that day. He followed Father, Makalaure, Nelyo, Curufin, for the same reason he accepted exile in Formenos. Not belief, but loyalty.

Curufin never seemed to understand that. Not then, and seemingly not now.

Caranthir resolved to change the subject, resolutely ignoring that sick feeling settling in his chest, and not just because they’d accidentally dragged up memories. Caranthir… liked Uncle Tywin. 

“So, that leaves the question of who your father is,” he said in one breath, grasping for something unimportant and finding what was at the forefront of his mind just minutes ago.

Celegorm opened one eye, and gave Caranthir a questioning look that made him regret having spoke. Celegorm sighed, though, after a second, as if realizing something, and Caranthir relaxed, marginally.

“I forget, sometimes, how very little the North matters to you Southroners. Everyone knows me here, but down South I’m just another useless bastard.”

He collapsed again, back against the furs of his bed. 

“Brandon,” he said quietly, even as the bitterness that seeped in made his words brittle. “My father was Brandon Stark. I barely remember him now, because the Mad King killed him and we started a war. Mother still cries, but I don’t think he cared about her much. But I suppose that’s still better… Mmm.”

_But I suppose that’s still better than… burning your brother alive? Swearing an impossible oath before dying? Alienating your mother from all of us? Better than Feanor._

Best not to say those things in front of Curufin.

Celegorm sniffed, shifting and squirming, and Caranthir almost snorted, despite the tension. His brother could be like one of their mother’s statue in a glade, remaining perfectly frozen for hours, but he could never manage the same stillness surrounded by stone. Celegorm eventually ceased his uneasy movement to sit up and look at them again. His expression was far less stormy than it had been, amiable and sorry and open. 

“Let’s not talk about that stuff,” he said, softly. “Tell me about Amrod and Amras! How are they? Maedhros talked about his nephews all the time, but I want to hear more now that I remember my favorite little hunters.”

The tension in Caranthir’s shoulders made him desire nothing more than to skip all the heavy and jumbled topics, the years of longing, the brand new conflicting loyalties, Menegroth, Father. But… well, how were the twins supposed to be? Their father was dead. Morgoth might not have knocked on anyone’s door, but danger still lurked around the corner in Westeros.

“No,” Caranthir declared. “Which tournament did we meet at? Who should we avoid in Winterfell? How are we going to keep you out of sight of the king?”

“They and Myrcella steal pies,” Curufin hissed suddenly, drawing both Caranthir and Celegorm’s stunned gazes with his cracking, adolescent voice. He sounded like a child. “And one time, at a feast, they dumped potatoes in my shoe so that Myrcella could snatch my pudding from my plate. I don’t even think they ate it! They just wanted to prove they could.”

He spoke, impassioned and practically foot-stomping mad, like this was the greatest crime Ambarussa could have ever committed. 

Celegorm laughed, long and loud, and Curufin kept complaining, naming all the ways he thought Amrod and Amras were menaces, and it was almost like they were in Tirion again, hiding so that they didn’t have to clean up a mess that no one would fess up to. It softened something old and anxiety-ridden in Caranthir’s chest, and he released a small breath. Celegorm started telling a story about his cousins Arya and Sansa, something involving sewing needles, and Caranthir even chuckled some. He jumped in, after Celegorm finished, to recount the time the twins released a pair of hawks into the Small Council room during a meeting.

They got nothing done. The boys spent upwards of two hours trading stories and anecdotes from their second childhoods. Reacquainting themselves with the strangers dearest to their hearts.

After noticing that the sun was setting through Celegorm’s window, though, Caranthir shepherded Curufin out the door. He still didn’t know where he supposedly became friends with Ser Snow, or if they exchanged letters or if Maedhros Tully fit into all this. What he did know was three things: He had missed Celegorm like a limb, aching for his brother’s good-natured passion more than he realized; Cersei was likely going to murder him for detaining her son and keeping him from becoming presentable enough for the feast; Curufin looked more alive and content than he had in seven months, so Caranthir didn’t care what the queen thought.

The days were short in the North this time of year. They still had three hours until the feast, so it didn’t prove to be much of a problem, even if they were both dead tired from riding all day. Cersei scolded Caranthir while Curufin was in the bath, despite their ample time, more out of habit than any real anger. She too busy trying to find something warmer for Myrcella to wear– they’d misjudged the Northern summer– to properly hate her cousin.

Everyone was well put together by the time the royal family proceeded to the Stark’s hall.

As a knight and servant, Caranthir, Lannister or no, was not seated at the high table. Neither was Jaime, the Hound, Lancel, or any of the others. Jaime still loitered by Cersei’s side, though, and Caranthir walked behind Curufin until he was seated. Caranthir gave his little brother's shoulder a pat of reassurance, then went to go find his other younger brother. Lancel was trying, and failing, to charm a serving girl, only succeeding in harassing her. Caranthir grabbed him by the ear, much to the squire’s great indignation.

“You’re not Mother and I’m not a child!” Caranthir steadfastly ignored him and dragged him away, towards where he saw Celegorm and Jon Snow seated and laughing. It was already too loud to hear much of what was said, but Celegorm patted him on the back and Lancel was seated on Jon Snow’s side, so it really didn’t matter. 

There were several girls at the table, all young and giggly and receptive to a King’s Landing squire, so Lancel perked up. Caranthir filed that as one problem settled, but resolved to watch Lancel’s alcohol intake. 

Celegorm bumped his shoulder and passed him a mug, and he resolved not to watch his own.

After the two months Caranthir had? He deserved it.

They feasted, great quantities of food and mead flowing, and Caranthir tried to keep his wherewithal, one eye on Lancel the other one on Curufin. But as the night drew on, he laughed easier and smiled more, and when the minstrels played a song by Maglor Sand, they sang louder than any expected them to.

“Caranthir!” Celegorm yelled in his ear suddenly, and he couldn't even be bothered by it. “I have to show you something! I’m gonna get Curvo! Watch!”

“Okay!” Caranthir laughed, tipsy and warm, a smug grin plastered on his face and arms resting on the table. _How, oh how, is Tyelko going to free Curufin from the unbreakable grasp of Cersei?_

He watched Celegorm lean across the table, towards a young girl who Lancel had been talking to earlier. “Jeyne,” Celegorm hissed, holding out a little slip of paper, “take this to the prince.”

“What?” the little girl shrieked, face flushing and whole body bouncing. The grin on her face was disgusting. 

“It’s for Sansa. Take this to the prince, the black-haired one, and make sure he knows it’s from me. Be discreet, we need it to be a surprise.”

“It’s not a trick is it?” she all but yelled back, but in the din of the hall it might as well have been as whisper. 

Celegorm laughed in reply, tilting his head and grinning charmingly at her.

“Of course not, Jeyne. It’s going to help Sansa, make her very happy. I promise. You know me, Jeyne, would a knight ever do something so cruel?” He winked. The sly dog winked and the girl went red, took the note and scurried off. Caranthir could only gape at his brother. Watching the girl run up to the head table, Caranthir gave him a slap across the shoulder, hissing at him.

“What have you done?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You manipulated that girl!”

“Well, they didn’t call me Celegorm the Fair for nothing.”

“Celegorm the Fool! What have you given to Curufin?”

“Nothing. Now, where’s that squire you’ve been dragging around?”

Caranthir blinked, then cursed himself and stood swiftly from his chair, looking around desperately for Lancel. There were a few golden heads sprinkled amid the brown and black Northern sea, but only Lancel was making a massive fool of himself, trying to dance with a girl that was all but holding him up. Caranthir stalked over.

“Lancel!” he barked. The girl turned to stare at him, but his brother didn’t and that sent Caranthir’s blood running both hot and cold, anger and fear mixing in a bad combination. He grabbed Lancel by the scruff, dragging him up and into his arms. Lancel went without protest, which was the most concerning thing of all. Caranthir couldn’t begin to guess what he was saying, too busy fighting his weight to listen to the slurred words. Lancel wasn’t that much shorter than he himself, never had been; they were only a year apart.

Caranthir let out a breath of relief when Celegorm came over, taking Lancel’s left arm and slinging it over his shoulders. Together, they were able to carry his drunk ass out of the hall and into the fresh air. They struggled to drag Lancel’s limp and squirming form across the snowy courtyard towards the wing where the visiting knights of the king were being housed. It was planned by the steward that the brothers would share a room, so it was easy to place the boy where he needed to go. 

They dropped him on the bed, and Celegorm disappeared as Caranthir went about stripping Lancel of his overclothes. He grumbled as he struggled to pull the boots off his feet, cursing idiot and faithless brothers, not sure if he was talking about Lancel or Celegorm. Caranthir was just tucking the sheets around Lancel when Celegorm came back, holding a bucket in hand. They turned Lancel on his side and positioned the bucket next to the bed, near his face. 

Caranthir stepped back to gaze at their work, drunk little brother cared for and put to bed according to Dorna’s standards, before Celegorm grabbed his arm and guided him out of the room and the wing. They found their way back outside, settling to rest against a wall at Celegorm’s direction. He was still laughing, snickering, but Caranthir’s good mood had been well and truly wrecked. He stood, seething and shivering, trying to keep warm in his apparently-not-thick-enough coat. 

“So,” Celegorm said a few moments into their waiting, though waiting for what Caranthir didn’t know. “Who was that kid?”

Caranthir slid his eyes over to Celegorm, regarding him for a few seconds, shaken to his core. It had never occurred to him… but, well, he hadn't known who Celegorm’s father was. Why would he have paid attention to every erant branch of House Lannister? Caranthir paused a few more second before replying, all the same. He didn’t know what he was steeling himself for.

“My younger brother.”

Celegorm look stricken. “Ah,” he breathed, hands falling and shoulders shifting, “… you have… other brothers.”

Caranthir fought a sigh. He’d wondered if Celegorm had siblings, and it seemed he did not. He couldn’t begin to guess how weird, how painful, that made finding out the brother you thought was your own possessed other loyalties. Other siblings. Maedhros, the twins, Curufin, they had siblings. Brothers.

Even if Curufin had hardly spoken a word to Tommen and Myrcella since regaining his memories.

Caranthir did sigh, this time. “Yes,” he said, carefully not making eye contact with Celegorm. “I do. Three. Lancel, he’s sixteen and the drunken idiot. Martyn and Willem are twins. I still think of them as children but they’ve started squiring, as well. Janei, my sister, she’s still a baby, though. Barely more than a toddler.” 

Celegorm drew in a deep breath that Caranthir tried to ignore. Resolutely went to studying a single stone against the far wall. There was a hole next to it.

“Right!” Celegorm said finally, false cheer in his voice. “Right. I don’t have siblings, Mother’s never married, or… dallied. But I have cousins, you know. The Starks, Jon, and the Forresters. They’re a small house up here, I spent most of my childhood with them. That’s not quite a family, and none of them are Aredhel… but it was good. They were good people to grow up with, all of them… When I remembered, though, I guess I just thought that, that I’d figured out where I belonged. Family that wanted me I guess. I– shit, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have told you all that. You don’t want to know– ”

“I’m closer to Curvo than I am with all of them,” Caranthir said suddenly, all but blurting it out in a desperate need to _make Tyelko stop_. 

He bit his cheek immediately after, angry at himself for saying it, all the same. For trying to apologize for having a family. For the fact that what he said was true, that he diligently watched Curvo at the head table, but missed Lancel getting so very deep in his cups. That he hardly knew Janei because he spent so much time in King’s Landing, and his blond twin brothers were so painfully, obviously jealous of his affection for Curufin, Kevan wouldn’t send them to squire at court least a scene be caused.

Caranthir hated himself because he still loved the Lannisters, despite the fact that some days they didn’t seem real.

Celegorm blinked his wide eyes, hopeful and nervous at the same time, and Caranthir continued talking, regardless of his own inner turmoil, before he even knew what he was doing. “Listen, I… Curufin, right now he’s saying things, he’s… trying to figure out who he is. Both because he’s a dumb kid, but also because he’s trying to reconcile Curufinwë with Curufin Baratheon. He says stuff, like the king isn’t his father, because he’s hurting. But we both know it’s not true, and he doesn’t know how to balance our family with… with his family. I don’t either, but Lancel’s still my brother. It’s just that… that most days it feels like Curvo is more my brother. I don’t know how to change that, or balance this, or even choose. But I can’t stop caring, about any of you. Am I making any sense?”

Caranthir looked up, but before he could meet Celegorm’s eyes, he was dragged into a hug. Celegorm was positively too tall, because he rested his chin on Caranthir’s head, and the seventeen year-old was so caught up in being furious for a moment, he almost missed what was said.

“You read my letter. I haven’t been to visit my ma, or written like I should, because I’m scared about what talking to her is going to be like now. Now that I remember _Amil_.”

Caranthir grit his teeth and wrapped an arm around Celegorm’s shoulders, because it was the only thing he could do. _When did you remember, Tyelko? Yesterday?_

He couldn’t imagine how painful that was, how confusing. All he could do was try to anchor his older brother.

They stayed in their embrace for a few more moments, just breathing in each other’s comfort, before pulling back. Caranthir and Celegorm remained quiet, each with his own thoughts, not quite sure where to go from there. They were saved from too much introspection by the soft crunch of boots that eventually revealed Curufin’s small, disgruntled form.

He noticed them the second they saw him, and levelled an incredibly heated glare at Celegorm. It might have been intimidating, Caranthir thought, if he didn’t look like a kitten with his little black fur standing on end.

“You,” Curufin hissed, causing Caranthir to try and hide his smirk. “Why would you do that to me?”

Celegorm simply laughed.

“It’s not funny,” Curvo whined, face going pink and crossing his arms.

Caranthir bit his lip to try and control his mirth, raising an eyebrow at Curufin. “Honestly. What did Tyelko do? It can’t have been that bad.”

“It was! He made me escort Sansa Stark back to her room!”

“I didn’t make you do anything!”

“You did! That other girl stared at me until I did it, and when Mother asked what the note was about, I had to tell her and she glared at me until I spoke to Sansa Stark as well!”

Celegorm laughed harder. Caranthir bit his lip harder. “It’s not funny. It’s not! She’s got… ideas.”

“She better not have ideas,” Celegorm cried, good cheer still firmly in place. “She’s too young for you, Curvo. Now, enough about Sansa. I’ve got a real reason I schemed to help you escape.”

“Oh?” Caranthir muttered, mirth fading and concern settling back in his chest. Curufin looked equally wary, knowing just as well as Caranthir that Celegorm’s schemes usually ended with wrestling a bear after waking up in the forest with no clothes but one’s left sock. Celegorm seemed to notice their trepidation.

He shook his head and started walking, making his way back towards the main courtyard. “Don’t worry, I promise this is important.” They trekked steadily back past the stables, in a quiet line, moving silently as if they weren’t supposed to be there. Which, technically, Curufin wasn’t. “Something good, too. The surprise is why I remembered everything actually. You are not going to believe this!”

“Do I want to know what trouble a trio of adolescent boys are ‘not going to believe?”

Caranthir about jumped out of his skin. He flinched and turned, as did Curufin, and Celegorm even went for his sword.

There stood, curious and wary, Jon Snow and Tyrion. Caranthir’s cousin and Curufin’s uncle raised an eyebrow. 

“I actually think I want plausible deniability. I do not need Cersei’s wrath coming down upon me, if her son is found in a brothel.”

Curufin squeaked his indignation.

“No, _no_ ,” Celegorm claimed quickly, waving his arms and shooting Jon Snow a nervous look. “No, we’re not. No, Jon, no one’s allowed in the whorehouse, no one here is old enough.”

“Oh, I assure you I am, boy. So where, pray tell, are you going?”

Celegorm whined, low in his throat, something almost like a tantrum. The kind of plea for mercy he would give Mother when he didn’t have to words to explain his reasonings or was too flustered to make speech. That habit was what always truly convinced Carnistir that Tyelkormo could talk to animals, use their language, and Father was fascinated by it. Tyelkormo’s inability to communicate properly as an Elf would bother Curvo to the point of distraction, but Father loved to try and decipher the almost animal-like cues his third son unconsciously made. Feanor always said that Turkafinwë had inherited his talent for language.

He struggled for those words now, and Caranthir wanted to help, but he didn’t know where they were going either, after all. Also, it was also more fun to watch him flail. Finally, Celegorm was able to grit out an approximation of what he was getting at, very un-poetically, and not at all like Feanor. But the words did their job.

“Nowhere bad. We’re just going to the kennels, and who are you, dwarf?”

Caranthir didn’t know quite where to start with that. His first thought was, _kennels_? Swiftly followed by, _do you know nothing, Celegorm?_ He then resolved to write to Maedhros, demanding to know what he thought he was teaching Celegorm in those several years they spent wandering the Seven Kingdoms, because it certainly wasn’t Westeros’ current political climate, or the major individuals of the major Houses.

Thankfully, Curufin was able to articulate what Caranthir was not, in his exasperation. 

“You speak to my uncle, Tyrion Lannister, poorly informed Ser. And you demand our presence in this frigid weather, away from the festivities and our kin, in order to see the kennels?”

Caranthir decided to reward his little brother for being able to maintain the guise of not knowing or caring about Celegorm. But Celegorm himself certainly didn’t seem capable of not letting the whole of Winterfell know that they were brothers in a past life. In front of Tyrion, no less, perhaps the single most dangerous person, besides Cersei, to give hints to that there was more to their relationships. Hints that they just might be completely mad.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at them, and Caranthir almost collapsed in shame. But the moment passed, his cousin obviously deciding to let his suspicions go for now, for whatever reason. “Very well,” he said. “It’s not my place to patrol the actions of young men. And if you are actually going to the kennels I can understand why, even if one of the attractions is right here.”

Caranthir shifted. “What?” he bit out, flicking his eyes between Tyrion and Celegorm. It was Jon Snow who answered, though.

“Ghost,” he said, loud and clear and the first thing Caranthir had heard the quiet bastard say. He didn’t speak more but pointed to a small pup, a _wolf pup, bloody hell,_ sitting by his feet. Once again, Curufin voiced what Caranthir was too speechless to say, even as he could feel his own face turning red with all the blood rushing to it, no doubt voicing his thoughts very clearly.

“Is that a direwolf?!” Curufin yelped, his voice strangled and cracking with adolescence.

“Don’t panic,” Celegorm said, holding out his hands, his bared-teeth grin creeping across his face. Caranthir was suddenly struck with the memory of his brother covered in blood, his hair so stained it looked Nelyo’s color, mud and orc-blood caught in his teeth as he ran through the pouring rain. A massive wolf-hound bounded at his side that day, but the scene felt like watching two wolves run after their prey. Caranthir flicked his eyes back to the tiny, almost cute, white direwolf and flinched. 

Celegorm kept talking, and he was forced to listen.

“Bran and Jon found a litter of direwolves a month ago. There were seven! One for each of the Stark children, even Jon and me. The rest of the wolves are in the kennel, Lady Stark insisted since she didn’t want to scare the guests. I actually agreed with her, for once, I mean look at your faces! I know they’re kind of like wargs.”

“Wargs?” _Others take me, don’t say these things in front of Tyrion._

“But they’re… well, I can’t explain it, but you’ll understand once you meet him. Jon took Ghost to the feast, but I wanted to see you first, before you met Huan.”

The silence was deafening, likely more so for Jon Snow and Tyrion, because they possessed not an inkling of why Caranthir and Curufin had gone to deathly still.

“Huan,” Caranthir finally breathed through his teeth. “Huan. Is that… is that just a name you chose, or…?” _By the Seven,_ I _shouldn’t be saying this in front of Tyrion!_

Celegorm, joy so aparent you could taste it, merely shook his head. “Come on,” he said softly, “you’ll see.” And he bounded off, in what was undoubtedly the direction of the kennels. Caranthir and Curufin shared a single, shocked, pained look, before swiftly running after him.

He already had the doors thrown wide open, and, true to form, there were dozens of hounds inside. But when they walked up to the one cage Celegorm was trying to open, they indeed saw six more direwolf pups. And Caranthir’s eyes landed on one as Celegorm pried open the door, a small thing with silver and grey fur, and far too intelligent golden eyes.

Carnistir had long carried a suspicion in his past life, one that he discussed with Father and Neylo on several occasions, that Tyelkormo’s ‘dog’ was in truth a beast-shaped Maia. Looking, as Caranthir Lannister, at the direwolf named Huan, the hound who was supposed to be doomed to spend the rest of eternity battling the soul of Carcharoth in everlasting darkness… yes, that belief was confirmed. 

Caranthir doubled over, taken with the desire to laugh or scream or cry, because of how terribly implausible their lives were. Curufin even fell to his knees, so great was his shock. 

The direwolf, once the wolfhound of Valinor, didn’t seem bothered by their small, individual meltdowns, and merely padded out of his cell to lick at Curufin’s hand. Tears welled in Curufin’s eyes, for reasons Caranthir could guess but dare not articulate, and he held out his hand in supplication. Huan nuzzled at his Mannish flesh.

Then, Caranthir did laugh, managing to choke out a, “ _elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo,_ Huan.” In reply, the direwolf pup gave a small yip, which Caranthir chose to take as a similar greeting.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he heard Celegorm say suddenly. Celegorm was sitting on the ground, and Caranthir watched as he reached over to run his fingers through Huan’s fur, a reverency in his movements and awe in his eyes, which were suspiciously bright. “I thought it was over, after losing him. That I was well and truly lost. Doomed. Forsaken. Nothing I did after that seemed to matter, because I had already hit the lowest possible point. I was wrong, of course, but I never wanted to remember that time. Who I was. That’s why Nelyo and Makalaurë couldn’t make me awaken to it all, I didn’t want to see. But Huan came back to me. And I knew, I just– I knew it meant I was forgiven. That I had another chance. I could face everything that happened in the past, because I understood that it wouldn’t affect what was coming. Realizing the monster I was didn’t mean I had to be that again. I don’t. We’ve been reborn. Our sins and our oaths and our failures… they don’t mean anything anymore, not to anyone here, and they don’t have to rule us. Not anymore. Huan… you proved that to me. Celegorm Snow’s not a criminal, or a mistake, or someone inherently wrong or vile, and I’m not a kinslayer, not yet. I’m someone you think is worthy to be your friend again. This time, I’ll try to work to actually deserve that.”

Huan simply watched Celegorm’s plea, before trotting up to him in order to place his paws on the man’s chest. He gave a soft lick, right on Celegorm’s nose, and Caranthir quickly turned his face away so that he neither had to watch his brothers cry, nor let them see the tears streaming down his face.

Minutes passed, while each Man-who-was-once-an-Elf gathered himself and wiped at his own tears. When Caranthir was finally able to breath properly again, and he could hear his brothers’ pants coming back into rhythm, he turned and reached for Curufin. He pulled the boy up without protest, and Curufin leaned, of his own will, into Caranthir’s side. He looked exhausted, and Caranthir didn’t question it. It had been a long, emotional day, preceded by an exceedingly long two months.

Celegorm stood as well, while Huan remained dutifully at his side, tail wagging and ready to follow.

“Come on,” Caranthir whispered, “let’s go inside. It’s cold.” No one protested, and not one of them even brought up the possibility of separating from each other’s company to go back to their own rooms. 

As hey made for Celegorm’s chamber, they passed Tyrion now standing alone in the courtyard. Caranthir nodded to his cousin, who gave them a calculating, but also concerned and benevolent look. They walked on past Tyrion, and for a moment it seemed like he would simply let his young kinsmen go.

“If Jaime finds you with a whore tomorrow, I’m not pleading your case to Cersei for you!” Tyrion suddenly called at their backs, and Caranthir merely raised a hand in acknowledgment and walked on. 

The boys simply went back to Celegorm’s room, Huan barking and nipping and nudging at their heels, not caring for anyone else in Winterfell. Cersei could think they were out whoring, for all Caranthir cared. The sons of Feanor had a lifetime to make up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off! This first chapter was a lot of emotional unpacking, and a lot of emotional "we'll deal with that later". I promise the plot will pick up soon, but these first few chapters really needed to be fleshed out, so we'll be spending a lot of time (2 and a half chapters) in Winterfell and angst land. (This whole fic is probably angstland).
> 
> Anyway, if you like what I'm doing here with this crossover, leave a comment or a kudos! This is a massive project that I'm not sure I can finish, but I'm going to try, and even if updates are slow (I start uni again soon, help me). I can safely promise chapters will be long, though. Comments really do keep me motivated to provide the product people want!
> 
> Either way, thank you so, so, so, so much for reading. Even just that means the world.
> 
> Find me on tumble, come talk, I love to chat: https://amethysttribble.tumblr.com 
> 
> \- AT


	2. Curufin I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin has issues. Brother issues, father issues, wife issues, being-twelve-yet-longing-for-your-grown-son issues. He deals with it in true Feanorion fashion: poorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to my beta, she_who_recs! She is lovely and makes sure my sentences stay just jogging, and don't go running on.

Their swords collided with a thump, one that sent a shiver down his spine and chattered his teeth. Curufin even felt his feet sink into the mud, sliding back. His breath came out in pants that puffed in the air and his hands had gone stiff in his leather gloves from cold. He nearly lost his footing as the blades slide off one another, Robb Stark using his considerable height to bear down and push. 

Curufin let the tension in his arms drop, very suddenly, and dodged right, ducking close to Stark’s side. He intended to make a slash with the long side of his sword on Stark’s back, but the other young lord seemed to anticipate this. He used his own momentum to keep going forward, left, and well away from Curufin, before turning back around. 

Stark charged.

Curufin was used to engaging in swordplay with only a select few sources. The Red Keep’s Master at Arms, Uncle Jaime, Joffrey, Caranthir, very, very rarely… the king. Since Caranthir was knighted, Curufin only practiced with his true brother, in part to relearn the proper, superior elven style of swordsmanship. Partly because when Robb Stark bore his sword down towards his head, Curufin froze. He did not see the Elf who slew him, or the vile form of an orcish menace, or the dread horror of a Balrog. But he felt, for half a second, all those things, and the grip of his fingers loosened.

He blocked, but Stark’s superior size and strength easily overpowered his slackened stance, sending both Curufin and his sword to the mud. In different directions.

Joffrey was already laughing. Robb Stark at least had the good grace to try and hide his pleasure as Lord Cassel announced his victory. He also held out a hand, a gesture that was so entirely decent it made Curufin grit his teeth, pride standing on end and frustration mounting. He took Stark’s offer though. 

Nerdanel Mahtaniel might have raised dysfunctional kinslayers, but one thing her sons never were was rude for pettiness’ sake. In his second life, Caranthir had made certain to impart the same, occasionally painful, lessons. Joffrey didn’t have a Caranthir though, letting him cackle with ease and call across the yard, “If you let these Northerners defeat you, Curufin, I might just have to challenge you again.”

Robb Stark whipped around to glare at Joffrey, even managed to open his mouth. But Curufin struck first. Hearing Joffrey’s words, his hand had spasmed and he stalked towards the fence in record time, slamming into the railing to lean over and into second prince’s face. 

“Perhaps you should wait for your other bruises to heal before you issue any more competitions,” he hissed, voice deathly quiet and face corpse pale. Joffrey jerked back, predictably, a frightened sneer on his detestable face. The satisfaction at seeing him recoil only lasted a second. The Hound, loitering behind Joffrey’s shoulder, stalked froward with a hand on his imposing sword. Great fury erupted under Curufin’s skin, sending a rash of sensation shivering over his body. 

“Fight your own battles, you great housecat!” he cried, the residual pounding blood and unease from the mock battle fraying his already short nerves. He was not afraid of the Hound. Despite the queen’s words, Curufin knew that a servant would never strike him. Even if he did and Caranthir was elsewhere, ‘in council’ with Tyrion, Curufin had fought hulks and beasts before. There had proven literally nothing these men could provide that would frighten Curufin anymore. No sights or challenges could make him recoil; no words could hurt or cause him rethink his actions. They just made him furious.

Joffrey gasped, then snarled at the implication that he was a coward, the same taunt that never failed to work since their childhood. Despite his blustering, though, Joffrey never threw the first punch, at least not when Curufin’s back wasn’t turned. He fell back on words, saying, “Oh, I’d be happy to. But I only fight with real swords, not those wooden toys you and Stark prefer. I’m not actually sure someone your size can carry a steel one. You know, I think a little bit of the Imp made it into your blood.”

Typically, this was how their spats progressed, Joffrey would say something, Curufin would challenge him, and Joffrey would back down and call it a victory. Until he snapped, and Curufin let his fist connect with the soft flesh of Joffrey’s face, and even now Curufin could feel the same anger. He shook harder in fury, hands continuing to spasm, and breathing getting rougher. Every time he looked at Joffrey he saw his false brother standing into front of Father; _two sons to honour thy word_ , echoed in his ears. If he thought one slap on the wrist was enough to deter another physical fight, Joffrey was wrong.

“You don’t know what steel is,” Curufin hissed, and something in his eyes made Joffrey’s face take on a wary quality. “You don’t know blood or strength. Give me steel or wood, I’d run you through, or maybe I’ll just beat you to death.”

“You can’t kill people with a wooden sword!”

The Hound broke in suddenly, giving gruff, somewhat sick laugh, that acted like a bucket of cold water down Curufin’s spine. His vision, which he hadn’t noticed tunneling in on Joffrey, opened up some, and he took a deep breath. The Hound spoke, and said, “I've killed a man with a wooden stick. Don’t see why the little prince couldn’t manage it.”

Joffrey went red in the face, twisting around to glare at his unbothered bodyguard. Whatever he was going to spit and whine was cut off by the sound of boots slapping in the mud and a voice booming over the courtyard.

“The reason he can’t manage it is because he’s not going to try!” Celegorm yelled, running out into the field with the confidence to get in between an argument among princes. The only one with the stupidity to do so in the whole courtyard, as a quick look around proved that Stark and Cassel were still shooting each other nervous looks. Tommen, next to the very uncomfortable Bran Stark, was close to tears. The smallest child knew this song and dance.

Celegorm had spent the better part of his youth, when not starting ‘playful’ brawls, keeping his siblings and cousins’ numerous fights out of sight of their grandfather. There was Carnistir and various children of Arafinwë, and Curufinwë and Turukano’s spats, which were infamous and nearly went to blows on multiple occasions. The only reason they didn’t devolve into utter violence at every family function had been because bloodshed was not nearly as acceptable in Valinor as it was in Westeros. Curufin would concede that this was perhaps not wise on the part of Westeros, but it was far more satisfying for his purposes.

The bastard knight, though, slowed his gait and stepped between Crown Prince Curufin and Prince Joffrey. He held out his hands placatingly and received Joffrey’s sneer for his efforts. “How dare you tell me what to do?” the lesser prince hissed.

Curufin scoffed, but the sound went unacknowledged. It seemed to have escaped Joffrey’s notice that it wasn’t him but the crown prince that Celegorm was trying to control.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” Curufin could almost hear Celegorm’s teeth grinding, and fought letting the dark pleasure he took from Celegorm’s back-talk show. “I’ll try ordering someone else around. Robb!”

Robb Stark jerked to attention, standing straight and waiting attentively to hear what Celegorm had to say. The respect and attention the Heir of Winterfell gave his bastard cousin rankled something odd in Curufin’s chest, something that set off unease and another nasty feeling. One he couldn’t identify but that stung and boiled simultaneously, and bothered him all the more.

Why did he care? After all, Curufin, the crown prince, listened to the orders and words of the very same bastard.

_But I’m his true brother. I respect his authority as our father’s third son._

Stark… had no reason. Stooped to a lowly knight’s level as if he knew Celegorm’s true worth. He couldn’t. He didn’t. Celegorm was just another bastard to him, a Snow to everyone. Only Curufin and Caranthir knew he was a noble son of Feanor.

Curufin swallowed the bitter taste creeping up his throat, clenched his jaw. He flexed his fingers and tried to ignore the feeling. It didn’t matter, Stark didn’t matter. None of them did.

“Gather up the supplies and undress Bran. Put away the swords. Tempers are high, practice is done for the day,” Celegorm declared, with the comfortable and powerful authority of one who was at ease with and in the practice of ordering children around. Ser Cassel nodded empathetically, as well, reiterating the same orders with gruff approval. He seemed wary of the tension too, and perfectly willing to let Celegorm bear the danger of coming between royalty.

Despite Celegorm’s decree though, none of the boys moved. Curufin even tensed, digging his feet into the mud. Stark kept his grip on his wooden sword, shifting, seemingly waiting to see if he would need it. Joffrey had gone red in the face.

“You do not get any say here,” he hissed, in that quiet way of his that meant he was shaking in fury, about to explode into an awful display. Curufin sneered.

“Then I say sparring is finished. You’ve well and truly proven incapable of treating it with any dignity,” the elder prince declared, turning his body to stare down the blond twit. He narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms, and tried to ignore Tommen sniffling in the background. 

“I’ve not fought Stark, yet!” Joffrey yelped.

Before he could even finish getting the words out his his mouth, Celegorm murmured, “Away, Robb.”

“If this dog can defeat you, I want a try. With a real man’s sword, so I can prove how inferior you are, _imp_!”

“Then challenge me directly! But you won’t, because you know I’ll accept and cut you open!”

“No one’s fighting with steel!” Celegorm interjected, booming in the courtyard so loudly it disturbed the crows. He went on, his voice lowering to amiability again with ease. “Besides, Your Highness, Robb’s already fought, he’s tired. It wouldn’t be fair, wooden swords or steel.”

“I didn’t march out here not to duel!”

“Then I’ll duel you, Your Majesty,” Celegorm drawled, voice practically dripping with incredulity. “Since I’m rested and well trained with steel. But I promise you won’t like how I fight, because I have very little to lose. It certainly wouldn’t be fair.”

Everyone in the courtyard knew it too, and vicious satisfaction settled in Curufin’s chest. He watched Joffrey pale with gleaming eyes, as he stammered at Celegorm’s impassive face.

“You’re a knight,” Joffrey blustered, “I’ve not even been a squire, you’d be better off fighting someone… someone like the Hound! Yes, why don’t you duel the Hound, bastard? Punishment for insulting me, and trying to give commands to the prince.”

“I’m not a knight, either,” the Hound grumbled, but he reached for his sword all the same. Celegorm didn’t twitch, simply met Clegane’s stare, lips pulling back in a snarl. The weapon on his belt became the focal point of all watching, as he slowly slid his thumb under the hilt.

In the week they’d been at Winterfell, Curufin hadn’t seen his brother without his sword once. He feasted with his weapon, travelled the castle grounds with it, went riding fully equipped. Celegorm had not worn armour in their presence, but the sword stayed on his person almost like an attached limb. He remained prepared, even standing in the training courtyard of his uncle’s keep, surrounded by allies and family.

Tyelkormo did the same in Beleriand. He must still remember, as vividly as Curufin, those early months before their camps and fortresses were built, before they knew how to fortify walls, when orcish raiding parties would bear down on them weekly. So many died, more in the first year than in the three hundred that followed. That was when Curufinwë and Tyleperinquar lost Aikanaris. 

All the pleasure washed from Curufin as he watched the two men evaluate one another, and the wariness that settled in his chest even let him ignore Joffrey’s slight. Naturally, Curufin had full faith in his brother, survivor of _Nirnaeth Arnoediad_ and Huntsman of Oromë. But he also knew the Hound, knew how he fought, who he fought, and… well, Dior should not have been able to slay his brother, either. 

Curufin opened his mouth. This spat would not come to bloodshed, not over something so minor, and Celegorm and Clegane would certainly not fight Curufin and Joffrey’s battle. Before Curufin could speak though, a great presence burst into the courtyard. The king’s voice echoed over their heads.

“You! Bastard knight, I need a word.”

Curufin and Celegorm both tensed, and Curufin felt the breath leave his lungs. He looked swiftly at Celegorm’s long silver tresses and his face that had rapidly paled, before turning his gaze back towards Robert Baratheon. Shame and nerves settled in his chest, where his heart was pounding, and he despaired over the notion of giving in to Joffrey’s pathetic teasing. Celegorm was supposed to be in the upper levels of the castle, remaining out of sight and mind. He’d declared his intention the night before to just watch as Stark and Curufin sparred, but with Caranthir not present Celegorm seemed to believe it was his task to mediate their younger brother’s interactions. And Curufin had proven incapable of using any wherewithal or restraint, endangering his family for the sake of his own vendettas.

Tyelperinquar’s furious eyes flashed across his memory, and Curufin fought a flinch. He swallowed, and struggled to make his face impassive as the king strode towards them. Curufin’s left hand was shaking.

Celegorm raised a half-hearted wave in acknowledgement, a pained grimace on his face, before lowering his head. He gave a small bow, nothing extravagant and obviously stilted. When he rose again, Robert was settled with a pleased look about him, which was a small blessing. Celegorm kept his head down all the same.

“So, you’re Brandon’s boy,” the king rumbled, and Curufin was struck with a flash of fury. How easily he said such things, how he didn’t care about the impropriety that made Celegorm’s mother unmarriable, or his own numerous bastards. The philandering… oh, it was one of the thousand things Curufin could not forgive. The morning after the welcome feast, Jaime hadn’t found Curufin and Caranthir in the whorehouse, but had certainly spotted Robert. When the king stumbled into the hall to break his fast, Curufin had sneered. The afront had earned him a still half-drunken scolding about ‘respecting his _father_ ’. 

Curufin had stormed out without a word. It incurred even more punishment, but he could not stand the implication that this massive failure was his father. No, Curufinwë Fëanáro was not so flippant and foolish and incapable. It burned like acid in his throat to accept a substitute, even one he had _admired_ once. Loved… It was sickening.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Celegorm said quietly, still clear and not muttered. But his voice was so low it might as well have been a whisper. He didn’t sound timid but cowed, and Curufin stopped breathing as the exchange continued.

“Awful, awful thing what they did to him. It’s unforgivable.” Curufin flinched, which was fine because no one was looking at him. Celegorm had remained impassive, absolutely still. The same stillness he used when confronted with a wild animal that he wasn’t sure would attack or not. Celegorm, his height only dwarfed by Maedhros, with his snarling smiles, and sword by his hip, was trying to seem harmless and unimportant, voice deferential, head down, and body tense. 

He nodded in response to King Robert, twisting his shoulders and remaining silent in what might have been grief. But wasn’t, Curufin knew, because the man perished when Celegorm was barely more than a toddler, and hadn’t even married his mother. Celegorm, didn’t have to put on a show for a pretend father, he didn’t even have to try and say that Brandon Stark mattered. He was free of those deluded childhood niceties and false feelings Curufin remembered. Yet, he did all those things anyway for some reason. Curufin sniffed.

“But, no matter,” Robert kept rumbling. “That’s well and done with, Ned and I made sure of that! I’ve heard about you boy, not from you uncle, naturally, getting words out of him is like pulling teeth. But everyone else tells me you’re the one for the job to set up a hunt.”

It was as if someone shocked Celegorm. He jerked, his head snapping up right and his eyes went wide. There was the start of a grin on his surprised and wary face. “Aye,” he breathed, gaining confidence and shifting his stance to his more familiar swagger. “Aye, Your Majesty, if it’s a hunt you want there’s no finer in the North to go to. That I can promise.”

His teeth were bared, and Curufin had one heart-stopping moment of panic before he relaxed. It was not a notion he consciously formulated in his mind; he didn’t even have words to explain the relief to himself. Father laughed though, and Curufin understood. The king was jolly, remarkably so, until his ire was sparked. The best way to avoid danger and suspicion was to distract him with items and actions he enjoyed. Were he upset, Robert might notice Celegorm Snow’s silver hair. But practically salivating at the prospect of a hunt, after being confined to a travelling route and a castle for months, he would forgive anything from the man who gave that to him.

And what he had heard was true. There was no one better than an apprentice of Oromë to plan a hunt. 

The king grinned, shifting his weight, and Celegorm met his look with eyes shining from equal delight and anticipation. Truly, in this, the knight and king and prince were one in the same. Some of Curufin’s fondest childhood memories were of hunting in the Stormlands with his father- Or rather, the child who once stunted Curufinwë’s consciousness had enjoyed those days immensely. He suspected that was caused by a residue of who he once was; a small piece of the true him remembering the many pleasant times when he and his brothers would ride into the forest, with no real goal but game and sport.

“How long would it take you to plan one, boy?” King Robert asked, gruff voice radiating with pleasure.

Celegorm matched him beat-for-beat, even licking his lips before replying, and placed a hand on his hip. He narrowed his eyes in confidence and humor, a line not many would be willing to straddle with a king. But Curufin knew that Robert appreciated some cocky swagger, enjoyed people who challenged him. 

Curufin benefitted from Robert’s love of confrontation often. The crown prince and the king fought, more in the past year than in all the years before, and yet the king remained… fond. Joffrey never confronted him, but Robert couldn’t stand even the slightest trouble from him. He never even punished Joffrey, just sent the second prince from his sight. But Father was still singularly forgiving, affectionate, and proud with Curufin, even when he was angry with his eldest son. The same way Feanor had been, when he and Atarinkë argued to the point of slammed doors about minerals or composition or syntax.

Curufin shook that thought from his head, and violently ripped the notion away.

“That depends, Your Majesty,” Celegorm replied, pleased and eager and totally unaware of his younger brother’s complicated disdain for the king. “What kind of hunt do you want? Because I know you’re eager, and I can arrange it that we ride out in thirty-six hours if you just want a good, normal hunt. But if you want something different, something truly Northern in style, a little wild and terribly challenging and highly fun, where I set something up in the Wolf’s Wood… it’ll take me little less than a week, Your Majesty, if I leave right now.” His tone was light, but also wicked, as was the look in his eyes. 

And Robert grinned, an expression filled with equal lust, and his reply boomed. “Well, what are you waiting for! We’ll ride after Curufin’s nameday! You have seven days to give us the Northern hunt of a lifetime.”

Celegorm dashed away without further preamble, without a proper dismissal, or even a goodbye to Curufin. Curufin noticed, naturally, but that odd mess of a feeling the departure inspired, which was certainly not hurt, was overshadowed by the sickness that settled in his stomach at the reminder of his name day.

Normally, the celebration that heralded he was a year older was a relief. It meant that he and Joffrey were no longer the same arbitrary number of years, _because they were not the same age, that isn’t how time works, Joffrey!_ It usually silenced the most grating of his bravado, the kind that reminded Curufin of _Finwë Nolofinwë_. Not to mention… namedays were fun. Caranthir knit him things. 

But the idea of celebrating one’s birth was stranger now, and more daunting. Firstly, he despaired being in such grand display when he had done nothing but breath for the required period of time. Secondly, reconciling the concept of a begetting day with a nameday was a staggering contrast in culture that Curufin hadn’t been able to analyse yet. Caranthir probably had, with his many years and love of such intangible thought exercises and research. Moryo had always been quite the academic, but not in the manner of Feanor and Curufin, who always revelled in the ultra practical. Caranthir enjoyed pursuits with no real gain, and in Beleriand he took great strides to compare and contrast the lives of elves and dwarves.

By the Valar, Curufin missed the dwarves in this world dominated by men. 

Dwarves were loud and brash like men, but they were also crafty and clever and very agreeable once you proved you respected their works and efforts. Dwarves brought something unique to the peoples of Arda, filled a void that so many elves ignored. Men, though, were simply… lacking, in every conceivable way. Lesser. It still stung and burned at Curufin that Beren had been able to best him, so much so that ages and a life later the Elf still lay up at night wondering where he went wrong.

He shifted his shoulders, which he now noticed twinged in pain. The rush of battle and fury had dulled the sensation, but it seemed that Robb Stark’s final push left a mark. He gritted his teeth and tried not to make the obvious connection between the different men. _Illuvatar in Ea_ , Curufin hated to lose.

The king was talking to Stark. Likely about the upcoming hunt, demanding the Stark heir join them. Curufin huffed, looking at inferior copies of the great. He went about shedding his outer layers that were suddenly sticky, and walked towards the direction of his rooms. He needed a bath.

Curufin was halted, though, by King Robert’s booming voice calling above all of their heads. 

“Curufin! Go and make yourself presentable, then meet me at Ned’s study! Quickly too, I have something important to discuss with you.”

He froze, shoulders tensing and legs going rigid. Curufin was only able to give a jerky nod, without looking back, before beating his retreat. As soon as he was out of sight, he almost dashed to his room, illogical anxiety pounding in his chest. He even slammed his door. With no coordination, he went about ripping and tearing at his clothes, trying and failing to get them off.

Was this what Caranthir and Tyrion were discussing? Curufin hoped not, because Caranthir kept shooting his odd looks this morning, ones fueled by horror and concern. Whatever the king had in mind for him couldn’t be good. 

Was he going to be banished to this frigid wasteland? Curufin had dealt with enough cold in Himlad for three lifetimes, thank you. Maybe… Lord Stark was likely going to King’s Landing, was Curufin to squire for him? He was about the right age. Perhaps the king simply wanted to give him greater responsibility, some manner of training for the crown. Curufin didn’t even try to strangle the groan that erupted at the thought. This was supposed to be Nelyo’s responsibility. Hopefully it wouldn’t interfere with his work in Tobho Mott’s forge.

Curufin splashed water on his face, and used a rag to try and wash away the worst of the sweat. He then went about throwing on clothes, something reasonably nice and unwrinkled. A comb chopped and pulled at his hair, his too short hair. Celegorm kept his at a proper length, but that was a luxury the dispossessed elves of King’s Landing didn’t have.

Playing with the material of his trousers, Curufin’s fingers twitched as he walked down the halls of Winterfell. He did not know where Lord Stark’s study was, but Curufin found the steward in the great hall. Vayon Poole was able to direct him. Curufin had already passed it once.

The door to Lord Stark’s study was cracked open. The warm light of many lamps poured out, and Curufin could hear soft chatter. Above the other voices came the king’s rumbling din, a familiar sound that was reminiscent of a thousand rocks tumbling down a mountain. In his memory, the sound of Feanor’s cadence had dulled so much Curufin was often gripped with a panic-inducing fear of forgetting it. Nonetheless, he could still imperfectly recall that his voice had been like rushing water; deep and clear and capable of being soft one minute before becoming a roaring torrent. Always smooth and clear, though, because Feanor never stuttered or repeated himself. Unlike Robert, he was graceful and refined in speech even covered in blood or soot.

And yet…

Listening to the king’s hearty and uncouth chuckle, Curufin’s fingers steadied as reached for the knocker. His shoulders relaxed, marginally, and a unbidden breath fell from his lips. Curufin’s father had never done anything but right by him. 

He knocked, and the fidgety, creeping shortness of breath that always plagued him in social situations fell away. Like a tide that roared and receded, a small measure of confidence that he only ever pretended to have took over for the anxiety. Father called him in, and Curufin was able to throw his shoulders back and approach their host with his face impassive and head held high.

Robert said he looked like Cersei when he put on that expression, and Curufin always felt the awful need to apologize in response. He was simply cool like his mother, he would try to excuse himself, and had none of the king’s easy friendliness. The comparison sickened him, because it was never complimentary. Father said it to be cruel. Meanwhile, on the very few occasions anyone had ever compared him to Nerdanel, something only Feanor or Celegorm really did, he was pleased. What a terrible and awful change. 

Lord Stark and the king stood together behind a great oak desk. There was a bottle of brandy open between them, half empty, but Lord Stark’s glass was still filled to brim. Curufin suspected that wasn’t because he was keeping up. Seated primly across from them was Sansa Stark. 

Curufin’s step faltered when he saw the young girl who had been giving him strange looks since they arrived. She blushed to see him, a pleased smile of her face, and Curufin looked away quickly. Even though he was somewhat flustered by the giggly child’s presence, Curufin still assumed his mask was unbroken. But the king was laughing at him and even dour Lord Stark look vaguely amused; Curufin could feel himself flush as deeply as Caranthir in response. He coughed, quickly, and continued on so that he stood at the desk. If he gave Sansa Stark a wide berth, nobody commented.

“Father,” he greeted in a clipped tone, gaze settled on a chip in the wall. “Lord Stark. Lady Sansa.”

“Sit, boy.” 

He sat, angled towards the king and very straight. Robert was practically bursting with excitement, a roguish grin on his face as he poured another glass of brandy. On his other side, Lord Stark was not nearly so exuberant. He was almost as tense as the boy, though Curufin didn’t know if he was always like that or not. There was something almost like Nelyafinwë in Beleriand about Lord Stark. Humorless and overly-controlled. Someone who was scarily capable and thus couldn’t be criticised on their methods, but because they were so… disgustingly without fault, they would never cross that barrier in greatness. Maedhros wouldn’t let himself be king, rejected his inherited majesty because he was scared. Too frightened that he would burn up to let himself shine as brightly as he could. 

Curufin saw something similar in Lord Stark. Probably the only reason they weren’t living under the rule of the wolves was that Eddard didn’t want to rule them. Curufin resolved to ask someone later, Stannis or one of the Arryn retainers, if Stark was brighter before tragedy befell his family.

Robert plopped the crystal glass in front of Curufin, much harder than necessary in his humble opinion. Some of the liquid sloshed out.

“Drink, drink,” the king urged, so Curufin did. He swallowed admirably, considering he drank more than he probably should have. The taste burned, and he fought the urge to gag as he put the glass down again. Everyone was looking at him, expectantly, so he raised an eyebrow. The king laughed, somehow softer than his usual fare. His voice, as he spoke, rumbled as always, but was oddly quieter. Restrained. Rocks shifting beneath one's feet, or the sound made when you throw a pebble down a rocky hillside.

“Momentous day, great day. Years go by faster than you think, it feels like just yesterday I was looking upon Lyanna for the first time. That Ned and I were meeting. And it all went so wrong, nothing worked out how it should have. But now, we have the power to change things. Aye, yes, finally. We shall unite our houses as they should be. You’ll both see, with all of us in King’s Landing it will be as it always should have been. Baratheon and Stark! Watching this kingdom as it should be. And you two youngsters will carry that on.”

Curufin shot up so straight, it felt like someone had dropped a hot coal on his bare foot. “You’re not saying–!”

“Father?” Sansa Stark’s soft breath overtook Curufin’s voice, which was almost at a screech. This didn’t bother him because his words were suddenly caught in his throat and he could no longer speak. A cloud, something like cotton in his ears and lead in his limbs, settled over Curufin, as he numbly looked for confirmation.

Lord Stark simply came out and said it, “Sansa, you and the crown prince are betrothed. The king and I have decided the two of you are to be married. When you’re older.” His eyes were entirely on his daughter. Curufin’s presence didn’t matter to him.

On the arm of the chair where his hand now rested, Curufin’s fingers were unnaturally still. _Married… betrothed?_ It was as if a million sparks were lighting in his head, but never at the same time and not enough to shine a light on any coherent thought. I can’t get married… I have a wife. A son.

_Aikanaris._

Curufin could feel his mouth gape, he felt his chest was beating so fast that everyone else in the room could probably hear. He was distantly aware that Sansa Stark was staring at him, her eyes were wide. He shifted his gaze ever so slightly towards her, and he closed his mouth, trying not to look like the poorly oiled suit of armor he felt like. There was a look about Sansa’s face that said if someone would just give her the cue she’d grin. Her hair was red and her eyes were blue and she was eleven. She resembled what he might imagine one of the children his brothers never had to look like.

Curufin flinched, looking away. He tried to ignore the crestfallen expression that overtook her face, didn’t register the shifting of the king and lord. There was a loud knock, but Curufin logged it as the slamming of his heart against his ribs. The sparks were brighter now, and coming more frequently. A picture was beginning to form. Curufin clenched his fist and stood. The words would come soon, so he settled on resolute, boiling silence for the action. 

Then he spoke. “No.” 

No one replied, so he forged on. “No, I can– How can you expect me to marry? I will not!” His voice was rising. Bang. “What gives you the right to decide this? A sacred contract is not for someone else to decide!” Curufin’s volume reached a fever pitch. Bang. “This is a child! I’ll not bind myself to a silly little girl!” Sansa Stark was crying. Bang.

The king found his voice. Bang, bang.

“You will do as I say, boy! And not insult this lady!”

“I’ll do as I please! I’ll not being marrying anyone, I already have a–”

BANG!

The large wooden door at Curufin’s back slammed open. Everyone in the room turned at once, violently, as Caranthir all but fell through the entryway. He tripped, having shoved his whole weight against the heavy oak, and stumbled upright. His face was flushed to the point of farce, and he was breathing hard.

“Forgive me,” Caranthir panted. “The– the queen sends for you, Your Majesty. And Lord Stark. It seems there’s been some spat between Princess Myrcella and Lady Arya. It needs help to be resolved. Right now. Before Queen Cersei kills someone.”

Lord Stark and the king exchanged looks, and Curufin was shaking all over. It felt like the atmosphere of the room was a previously blistering fire that freezing water was just dumped on. Steam rose from them all. Caranthir continued to speak, rolling on before anyone could gather their wits.

“I think I’ll just gather the prince. Yes, come.” He grabbed Curufin’s forearm, pulling him along. “I see that there was a minor disagreement, I promise to talk sense. My apologies for any rudeness, Lady Sansa.” Caranthir ushered him out of the study, away. There didn’t seem to be a destination, at least not one Curufin could parse out. But that wasn’t saying much at the moment.

Curufin’s breathing was just as ragged as the breathless Caranthir. Every muscle in his body was tense, and his blood felt like it was burning. His vision had all but gone blank. Not black, because the blurred colors were passing his eyes, but unseeing all the same. He didn’t hear the closet door opening, or feel himself being roughly tugged.

The world only came back to Curufin when Caranthir threw him with all his strength against a shelf.

“Arg!” Curufin grunted as his lower back collided with the wooden plank and jars rattled. He blinked in the darkness, eyes adjusting and focusing on Caranthir’s face. 

“What were you thinking!” Curufin didn’t reply. He was too busy still reeling. _Marry. Marry? Marry!_

This was not his life. This was not how things were supposed to be. Curufinwë Atarinkë lived in a mismatched house that was more furnace than living space. There was a lady who worked opposite of him in the forge, he at his metal and she with her glass. Her dark hair was bound so tightly it took them an hour to remove all the braids at night, their time not helped by stolen kisses. She was not delicate or silly; her smiles were wicked and her words were harsh. She was accustomed to burns and her voice was ragged from the times she’d accidently inhaled smoke. Aikanaris… his wife, who he courted and married in a whirlwind. Then lost just as fast.

He would never see her again.

Something ancient and shadowed cracked in Curufin’s chest. He whined, a sound low in his throat that might have been an aborted wail. His breathing grew faster, and his fingers clenched tight on the plank that now held up his entire weight. 

Why were they here? What was this game they were playing, this mockery of who they once were? They were chasing distorted shadows, ones that could remind Curufin of his true life if only he narrowed his eyes. But his hands would slip through that which was not real, inevitably. This was playing at house, make pretend, and he hadn’t even known until now. How cruel… what a dark fate.

A fire erupted in his chest, the same flame which had always lit the way for Feanor and his son. Burning emotion and fury that turned to ash all other notions that were unproductive. Fire razed. From the dust something could be built, though; that was always the philosophy which got him through the hard times. But shadows cannot burn. _What am I to do now_ , Curufin wailed in his own mind.

Raze, raze that which was real, he supposed. 

Caranthir grabbed him by the lapel, shaking him, and Curufin breathed. Breathed and ignited.

“Are you even listening to me,” Caranthir hissed, giving his brother a shake. “Do you have any concept of the mess you’ve made? By the Seven, Curvo–”

“Don’t say that,” Curufin whispered, hardly loud enough to be heard. But Caranthir paused all the same.

“ _What_?”

“Don’t say that ridiculous, Seven bullshit. They are false icons of men, and we know the Valar to be true. And we don’t worship the Valar because we know they are no gods, unlike the Secondborn.”

“You’re the one spouting ridiculous bullshit. What are you even on about, I don’t care about the Valar. I say the Seven because you are I were raised in the light of–”

“In the light of the Seven! Do you even hear yourself? You and I were raised to follow the will of Eru Iluvatar by our father, and not whatever these Men say! This isn’t real, Moryo! There is no light! _There is nothing for us here._ ”

Caranthir stared at him for a beat, eyes burning. But ‘burning’ was a metaphor that tasted bitter in Curufin’s mouth, because neither of them shone like they should have. The light of the Eldar wasn’t in them. As Curufin watched Caranthir suck a breath between his teeth, he started studying all the ways it was the same face but different. The ears, the glow, his nose was less sharp and his jaw more rugged. Mannish.

Caranthir stepped back a little, eventually. The small space he now had let Curufin take his eyes off his brother and breathe, but it was not relief. The pumping of his lungs acted like a poker one could blow into, stirring the flames of his chest. Each inhale came out hotter and deeper.

Finally, Caranthir spoke. 

“This is about Aikanaris.” 

Curufin didn’t dignify that with a reply. 

Caranthir’s face twisted up, a familiar expression: his lips forming a half sneer, the distressed furrowing of the eyebrows, how his nose scrunched. That was the look his brother got when he was about to attempt comfort, and fail. It was an expression Curufin knew well from his childhood, the most recent one, and it used to cause something to loosen in the knot of his emotions. Just Moryo’s attempts were enough to sate his pain then, but now he fought the urge to strike the look off his face. Caranthir spoke before he could.

“Curvo…” Caranthir closed his eyes. “The pain is immense, I can understand. It is an unhealable scar on your soul, a gaping loss. But that doesn’t change our present situation and obligations. It doesn’t excuse–”

“I’m not _asking_ for excuse or absolution,” Curufin hissed. “They were the ones in the wrong, deciding such a thing among themselves. I don’t give a damn about our _‘current obligations’_! What about my actual obligations? The promises I made? I’ll not do it, Caranthir, so don’t suggest such a thing to me.”

His brother looked like he had just sucked on a lemon. “Curvo,” he started out slowly, something wary and frightened in his voice. “Don’t you feel it?”

“ _Don’t you dare_.” A shiver, wet and slimy shivered down his spine. Caranthir was wrong. He didn’t know, couldn’t understand, he was wrong.

“I know you do. You never noticed when you were young, because Aikanaris isn’t there.”

“Cease!”

“The bond is gone, Curufin! Whatever connection was there has been dissolved. We are utterly sundered, freed from all oaths. Good and bad.”

“And what? What is that supposed to mean?” He was screaming so loudly someone could probably hear him from outside the door. “That I am faithless! That it wasn’t there, that either I or Aikanaris didn’t exist! That I should just marry some whore for prestige? What of my son?”

“You are conflating Father’s situation w–!”

“You could never comprehend what that bond means!”

“Of course I comprehend, this isn’t just about–!”

“No, you don’t! You and Lanyë were never even married!”

“ _Cur_ –”

“Or are you talking about your _woman_?!”

Curufin had not time to even grasp the words that left this mouth, let alone see any movement. Instead, everything blacked out all at once as he was struck. A fist collided with his upper cheek bone, Caranthir’s fist, and the blow threw him back so hard that the shelf split in half. Curufin’s body kept falling, slamming against the wall. His head banged against the hard stone, forcing the air from his lungs and buckling his knees, but he didn’t fall. Caranthir grasped him by his shirt before he could, hauling his significantly smaller brother up to eye level.

Caranthir slammed him against the wall again, before leaning into his face.

“Never speak of her again.”

Their gazes remained locked, both beyond fury; Caranthir struck mute with his rage and Curufin unable to summon words from the pain. Curufin counted six breaths. Then Caranthir let go, watching impassively as his brother slid against the wall, barely keeping himself off the ground. The older brother broke their stare first, turning away to stalk towards the door and wretch it open. Caranthir didn’t say another thing or spare a single glance.

He slammed the door behind him, and Curufin finally slid to the floor. He settled amid the shattered wood and fallen rags, paying no mind to the mess.

Curufin put his spinning head between his knees and wept.

Small, almost silent, sobs wracked his body as Curufin wrapped his arms around his waist. _Oh Seven, oh Valar._ Curufin longed, a deep and resonating pang that thundered through his spirit and nearly toppled him from within, for Father.

_What am I supposed to do?_

He couldn’t say how long passed in the wet gloom of a random closet. But all tears eventually run dry, and heart-stopping fear can only paralyze for so long. Curufin eventually dragged and stumbled his way to his feet, and made his way back to his room without interruption. He then collapsed unceremoniously on his bed, not moving for some time before his own mind became too much.

Curufin went about trying to sketch designs unsuccessfully and he read through a book he didn’t absorb. He didn’t go down to supper. He tried to very desperately occupy himself with picking at the furs the Starks used to decorate everything. He counted the threads in a tapestry displaying a woodland scene. 

And none of it worked. Because he knew, deep in his spirit and body, that Caranthir was right. Aikanaris wasn’t there. 

He had spoken, on many occasions, with Macalaurë about his brother’s relationship with Ravennië. Firstly he did so when he was young, testing the waters of betrothal, and desiring advice from his only married brother. But their chats persisted. As the years dragged on, even in Beleriand, marriage was the chief topic that bound Feanor’s second and fifth sons. Even when everything went so wrong, Curufin and Maglor would whisper, on rare occasion and amid wine, about how far those bonds now felt stretched. The Halls of Mandos were farther— spiritually— than Valinor, but the effect was the same. To lose your wife, the one who you shared your spirit with in the most intimate way known to elves, was agonizing and destructive in a very special way. 

That loss cast doubt over every action not reviewed by another, it made Arda infinitely emptier. Curufin had never felt more bereft than after they built the pyre and burned Aikanaris’ corpse. Even more so than when Father died. More than being deserted by Tyelperinquar. 

The part of him that believed in the future and their glory simply broke that day. The only thing left to have was victory, no matter how bitter.

And yet… this new sensation, in Westeros, was both worse and easier. Worse for the mind, because Curufin knew that aching emptiness should be there, a reservoir of love and companionship that wasn’t just drained but empty. Dry almost, and it was torment to reconcile what he remembered with the reality around him. Something should be something there!

He remembered the nights they thought would be endless, when he and his wife crowded in each other’s arms under work tables, fiddling with one another’s clothes and hair. Those moments were real. Curufin could still see, with great clarity, the light of Laurelin shining upon her in the moment he would always know was her most beautiful: Aikanaris, a vision of golden jewelry and black-hair, seated in the grass holding their son in her arms. That image was real!

Tyelperinquar… why was it so much harder to envision his baby? Curufin could not feel that connection, that all-consuming love and need to protect that drove so many of his actions. The memory of his son felt more like a notion than a tangible person, and the anguish that this confusion brought to his troubled mind tore a sob from his chest. Was it this body? Did the fact that Curufin was now physically younger than Celebrimbor distort his ability to believe himself the father he knew he was? 

Curufin was not blind. His mind was able to process the immaturity in some of his actions. He was young. But was he? In body yes, but not in mind, surely? No, his body remained that of the child Curufin Baratheon, but his mind was all Curufinwë Feanorion. Right?

And that was the ultimate problem. Curufin’s mind knew he was missing something. His body didn’t. Aikanaris was gone because Men did not form marriage bonds. There was no possible way for him to feel his wife. While his elvish hroä had withered in the agony of her death and distance, now there was no pain, nor even the aching loss he wanted. He wasn’t even a well run dry. He was just digging where there was no water.

She had never been there.

Curufin lay, unsleeping but not truly awake, in the bed all night. He waited resolutely for the sun to rise, and bemoaned everything that was Men. They could not even ail of grief. No wonder they treated each other with so little care. 

Cersei demanded he rise come morning. She forced the servants into his room and made clear his show would not be further tolerated. _Why_ , Curufin thought, scarily aware of how he sounded, _does Joffrey get to pout and make a menace of himself for two months over one punch, but my life is signed away and I have to be presentable?_

A servant tried to get his jerkin over his head, and Curufin batted his hands away angrily and with perhaps too much force. Still half dressed, but with eyes that could likely turn lesser men to stone, he marched to the hall to break his fast. He set himself in the thick of the golden royal family, well away from the Starks who he did not spare a glance, and filled his plate. Resolutely he said nothing, not responding to the queen’s scolding or Myrcella’s sweet chattering or Tommen’s gentle pleas for butter. He ignored Tyrion’s whispered concerns disguised as scoffs, and sneered away Jaime’s light hearted attempts at raising spirits through teasing. 

The second the words ‘Sansa Stark’ left someone’s mouth, Curufin drained his mug, stood, and strutted out. 

Caranthir was nowhere to be found… Good.

Curufin spent his morning in the training yard, dismantling a post with no skill or aim. The afternoon he passed in the godswood, walking with no aim, lost in his thoughts. He’d spent a few moments searching for his more amenable brother in the wild, but Celegorm wasn’t even in Winterfell apparently. Curufin had missed it in the confusion of yesterday, but the knight left for hunt preparations the second his orders were given. Celegorm probably didn’t even know about what had happened.

Curufin was forced to close his eyes and run a hand across his face when that thought came upon him. He truly did not want to see Celegorm’s reaction when he learned that Curufin was betrothed to his eleven year-old cousin.

 _Betrothed…_ had he really come to accept it? Was the indisputable notion that he was engaged to Sansa Stark really forged in his mind? Could he not fight it? 

Before the truth of his reality came back to him seven months ago, Curufin supposed he had expected to be engaged to a random girl, no fight needed. Curufin Baratheon’s reality had always evolved around the truth that he would marry at his father’s behest, most likely unhappily, like Robert and Cersei. This was simply part of his life, a factor of being Crown Prince, something to neither despair nor rejoice about. Certainly it was not a reality to deny.

And yet, now, he found the inevitability revolting. Betrothed was not married, though, his only consolation. Carnistir and Lanyë were betrothed on-and-off for nearly two hundred years, but that did not mean a bond was ever formed. Their relationship broke into a million pieces when it came time to sail, but didn’t come with anything near the fallout of Macalaurë and Ravennië’s separation. There was still something Curufin could do to change this. He would be grown one day, he would be King one day. A king was not beholden to anyone. Curufin would marry no one. He already had a wife, and each Elf would only forge one bond. That was how things should be.

Perhaps he would just name one of Tommen or Myrcella’s brats heir. Or maybe one of his unattached brothers would sire with a woman, and he could pass the kingship to that child. 

Curufin flinched when he realized just how Mannish his thinking was. He stalked back his rooms in a huff, stormcloud over his head warding off all who wished to speak to him. He remained locked in there for dinner, and after the showcase of this morning Cersei didn’t make a fuss about it. Curufin simply stared at the ceiling most of the night, anger slowly giving way to something more insidious.

The king was very obviously ignoring him, no doubt lost in his cups or a woman somewhere. Caranthir was nowhere to be seen. Curufin could not begin to guess what he was doing. Sansa Stark seemed to be everywhere, even though she never met his gaze.

The next day rose, and Curufin skipped the morning meal but could not ignore his fallible body’s needs come noon. Also, he was becoming twitchy from inaction. He would go to Winterfell’s forge, but that would attract too much attention. Caranthir might accuse him of having no sense, but Curufin knew the limits of oddity that would be accepted.

He ate alone, and in silence. He still didn’t know where Caranthir was. Maybe with Celegorm.

The thought hurt more than it should have.

Curufin resolved to spend another afternoon hiding in the woods. And another. And so he continued for the better part of the week, until his nameday. Curufin remained out of sight of all confrontation, staying far, far away from any who would nag at him, especially the king. He ate alone, went to bed early and rose late, and spent his time outside in isolation. He was also about to explode.

On the 29th, Curufin dressed for what would not doubt be an extraordinary awkward celebration with great indignation. He was alone, having yelled away the servants. He dressed himself, putting on his finest clothes, and longed desperately for some jewelry. It was pitiable how how little adornment these Men wore. With no one to yell at him, Curufin loitered in his room for as long as possible, fighting against what little social niceties he had— the ones that insisted a prince couldn’t storm and mope his way out of this event.

A knock on his door finally summoned Curufin. Caranthir, he saw once he gathered the courage to open it, wearing a look so sour and red he might as well have been a rotten apple. They didn’t speak the whole way to the hall, just sent one another stony glares. The air between them crackled with static that could combust at any moment, and Curufin thought, with no little bitterness, _right, this was why we never spoke to each other._

Caranthir still had the wherewithal to make sure they slipped through the back, though, unnoticed and unannounced, a small blessing. The feast was already at full tilt, the king in the middle of it, and Curufin didn’t even fight his sneer. He certainly wasn’t needed for his own party. The boy crossed his arms so that everyone would know he sat at the high table under protest. He tried not to let it sting when Caranthir slipped away, unseen once again.

So, the night dragged on. One hour, two, three glasses of wine that Caranthir normally would have pried from his young grasp. No one spoke to him, but at least he’d filled his social obligation. The world had taken on a slightly less distressing quality, and Curufin was just about resolved to leave when a roll was thrown at his head. 

It slapped against his temple harmlessly, a small note in the symphony of the feast and one that went almost entirely unnoticed. When Curufin tracked the route of the projectile he found Arya Stark levelling a glare at him. It wasn’t a bad glower either, for an eight year-old, and Curufin was almost reminded of Tyelperinquar levelling looks at Nolofinwë behind his back. The thought sent a wave of melancholy over him. The wine was helping him to relax, and he let the emotion overtake him easily. A mournful look come unabashed onto his face, his shoulders lumped, and he let out a breath through his teeth.. If Curufin looked as lost and pitiful as he felt, Arya Stark did not falter in the face of it.

She merely pointed with great force, sneering at him.

Following the line of her directioning, Curufin’s gaze rested on Sansa Stark. She sat muted at the high table as well, a bit down from her sister, her head hung and shoulders hunched. He watched, caught between overwhelming fear of her presence and rolling disgust. But she was small, young and drinking water, and he watched as she shifted. Her eyes were red, puffy and bloodshot, and she very obviously was trying her damndest to not look in his direction.

Curufin was never one who held much pity for crying. He remembered the sensation of numb satisfaction from running a weeping Elf through, and it sent a shiver down his spine. Tyelperinquar had known his father’s frightful standards well, and he always went to Celegorm after Aikanaris died. His child thought Curufin didn’t know of his perceived weakness, went to great lengths to hide it. But Curufinwë was aware. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

Tyelperinquar was nearing his first majority when they sailed; not old enough to swear, not old enough to fight, but of an age where he wasn’t quartered away with the children. He was forty-four the last time Curufinwë held him, about the physical maturity of Curufin Baratheon. Those days were filled with emotional deathblow after staggering loss, the cycle repeating itself endlessly, but Tyleperinquar’s hurt was small that day. He’d been forging a sword under his father’s direction, but faltered. The metal was too cool, the strike was too hard, and the great burning lump shattered into a dozen pieces. No one was hurt, but Tyleperinquar sobbed, collapsing on the smithy floor and wailing like a much younger child. A little more than fortnight later Curufinwë would cradle his wife’s frigid corpse as he then did his child, and the whole display would seem silly.

But the grief of children when they fear failure is never to be underestimated.

Curufin drained his goblet, and stood.

He was glad for the wine; it made his mood more amiable and his tongue less controlled and it kept the shaking of his hand at bay. As the eyes of the entire high table– and a good bit of the feast below– followed him to where he settled in front of Sansa Stark, he needed it. Curufin cleared his throat, and focused on a spot on her forehead as she gaped at him in astonishment. He ignored, in turn, the glares of the Starks surrounding him like a pack and its prey, and the watery, red eyes of Sansa Stark.

Curufin coughed again, but spoke clearly. “Lady Sansa. I believe I owe you an apology. A long and detailed one, and I would…” He could feel their eyes like vultures. Curufin revelled in attention and open ears, but he loved the crowd’s praise. He was on his wrong foot here. He could feel the blush. “Well, if you and your kin would allow it, I would speak to you more privately.” Most of what he said was high and strong. The next piece was nearly whispered, though, and what ultimately relaxed Lord Stark’s face. “Not in front of the entire hall.”

Several people opened their mouths to speak, namely Robb and Catelyn Stark namely, but Lord Stark’s bark beat them to it. “Sansa.” She looked at him. “Do you wish to speak to the prince? You won’t if you don’t want to.”

She was quiet for a while, longer than Curufin expected of her, as he had anticipated she would lap up a prince’s apology. She nodded, though, eyes still somber but gleaming with both hope and something sharper. 

“Very well. Robb, escort and chaperone your sister and Prince Curufin somewhere they can speak.” Robb Stark, for his part, looked almost mutinous. He stood all the same, following his father’s orders without question. The Stark heir glared at him as they walked in silence down the stone halls, carefully keeping his sister well away from the prince who insulted her. Curufin could feel his respect for the boy rise. He was loyal and honorable and devoted to his family, and Curufin hated him for it.

They adjourned to Lord Stark’s study. The reasons were probably all practical, but Curufin could still respect the dramatic irony of it. Their trio settled, and Sansa Stark looked to him, timid and biting her lip. Curufin tried desperately to ignore Robb Stark’s stare at his back. He shifted his gaze to focus on an inkwell on Lord Stark’s desk.

“It would take more than I am able to say to fully explain my actions last week. But, I would just let it be known that there were not any objections surrounding you.” _Yes, there were._ “I do not know you. I cannot say what manner of lady you are, though I don’t doubt it is very fine. I have an… unfortunate tendency to speak cruelly when upset, more so than I often mean to.” _Caranthir knows that. He does._ “I was taken by surprise by the king’s and Lord Stark’s decision. I have not made my peace with it now…” _What to say, how do I explain to a little girl my objections to this arranged betrothal?_ “I find it daunting to be promised to someone I do not know, to think that I will marry for… someone else’s gain. I believe that there is something sacred in marriage, and that there must be love.”

And there it was. Sansa Stark gave a small hiccuping gasp that turned into a sigh. When he flicked his gaze to her face, startled, she stared at him as if moonstruck. Curufin coughed and ducked his head.

“Yes, well, that is all. I simply did not wish you to be offended. Anymore than you were, that is, when I kept my silence. I will cause you no further frustration, so if I might—” He turned, and barely caught sight of Robb Stark’s expression, somewhere between wariness and bewilderment. Curufin stepped forward, ready to make his way back to his room and hide from all these Starks, roll-throwing, glaring, and sighing alike. He was stopped by a surprisingly steady grip on his wrist from a delicate hand.

He glanced back, and Sansa Stark looked at him with a small smile. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she said in her quiet, high voice. “Your apology makes everything clear, and I accept it gladly. I wish you will accept mine, when I say I’m sorry for not understanding why you were upset. I hope we can still come to know each other better.”

Curufin knew what his expression was, he did, he could feel it and sense it and watched her giggle for it. His face was as red as Carnistir’s after a shouting match.

“Right,” he breathed, then walked away. Sansa Stark let go of his wrist with ease, and he walked perhaps too fast to the doors, opening and closing them with little grace. 

Curufin marched swiftly down the halls to his room, all but running at the end. He threw open his door and closed it with more force than he was expecting of himself. Shocked at his own actions and face still heated, Curufin threw himself down on his bed, arms and legs spread wide. He buried his face in the furs, and continuously stretched and wriggled the left hand he could not see. His limbs were steady, and none of that jittery emotion that sent him up in flames raced through him.

So why did his wrist feel so odd?

Curufin slept that night. His slumber was born more from exhaustion and momentary relief than any real peace. Still, it was greater rest than he’d gotten all week, even if it was less than he needed. He was woken at dawn, rather unexpectedly, by the king. 

Robert barged into his room as the sun peeked through the skyline, banging the door and startling Curufin fiercely. The boy jumped and made a rather undignified sound, shooting up to look at the king, who just laughed at the display. King Robert’s face was flushed and jolly and he was already dressed for riding. He stalked over to the bed, where he grabbed the rather small prince in his great arms, jostling Curufin.

“Ha! I knew you would come around! Just a bit of childishness, not wanting be tied down to soon, eh? And the way you charmed the Stark girl, well done m’boy. Now everything’s put back on schedule, but don’t worry, you’ll have time to breath before the day proper! Thirteen, and a man! Come along now, to the hunt. We’ll celebrate proper.”

Engulfed and shocked, Curufin simply remained limp throughout the speech. It seemed he had Father’s forgiveness. He was more relieved than his pride would let him admit. And if, nestled against the king’s chest, he closed his eyes and leaned into that warmth, it was only a small moment. It need not matter in an infinite lifetime.

Doing as he was told, Curufin dressed quickly for the hunt and stumbled out of the room to see his other things already packed. It was a long hunt, and the servants had already handled everything, making sure there were extra clothes and a comb for their time in the woods. Curufin catalogued this, wondering what Celegorm was going to put the King’s Landing party through. But even if it might kill the rest of them, King Robert would be happy, and Curufin knew his brother’s tricks, so he was content.

He marched to the hall and breakfasted with some measure of contentment for the first time in a week. The Starks no longer glared, except for little Arya, even if they were still cool. Mother even gave him a measuring look and a nod of satisfaction. No one ate slowly though, because the men were to head out as soon as the sun was above the horizon. Curufin patted Tommen’s head as he walked out to prepare his horse.

As he came up to the large stable, he sped up at the sight of familiar silver hair, all but jogging to meet Celegorm. He stopped in his tracks, in the doorway, though, at the sight of Caranthir’s head bent low next to Celegorm’s gesticulating form. They were whispering, heatedly, voices rising by the second.

“I don’t see the problem, we just have Maedhros handle it!”

“Maybe, if you weren’t so profoundly ignorant–” Caranthir sneered back, but stopped suddenly as his gaze strayed over to where Curufin stood watching them. He stood up straighter, and Curufin could see a bucket in his hands for the grooming of a horse. That was probably what he’d been doing all morning, watching after both his and the prince’s steeds, despite his famous dislike of the creatures.

Curufin’s fingers twitched and he shifted his weight subtly, tilting his chin. “Caranthir.”

Caranthir’s gaze was never benign. There was a storminess to his brother’s every feature, so that he looked eternally peeved even when content. But one could always tell when true anger came upon him nonetheless, and Curufin could see that now. The narrowing of his eyes, the stretch of his mouth, the curl of his nose. He was remarkably expressive. Caranthir tossed the bucket aside with more force than was strictly necessary.

“It is my job to protect you,” he hissed. “And I will do my job. But know I take no joy from this, you insufferable bastard.” Then Caranthir strode off, just barely brushing shoulders with Curufin as he exited the doorway. Curufin let him go, even let Caranthir jostle him, and simply stared forward impassively while clenching his fist so hard the leather of his gloves creaked.

Celegorm, for his part, simply heaved a sigh. “You know,” he said, mournful but resigned. “I finally thought the three of us were over this.” He walked away as well, but at least left with a pat on Curufin’s head.

This _was_ always how it went, wasn’t it? Curufin, Celegorm, and Caranthir at each other's throats. Picking sides. Walking off, whether it be to the forests, the forge, or isolated, forsaken Thargelion. 

The brothers each rode in the hunting train separately, steadily ignoring one another. Celegorm was at the front, explaining the grounds they were in and how the next few days would go. Curufin was in the middle, being forced to make conversation with Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy, and Joffrey. Caranthir remained in the back with the rest of the guards. He was resolute and immovable in his dead silence.

The hunt passed well enough, objectively. Curufin felled a heron and a respectable number of flight birds. He watched Robert take a stag as a prize, something Celegorm very obviously could have done himself but gave up to the king. Robb Stark pulled him out of the way of one of Joffrey’s stray arrows and had stopped actively glowering, so Curufin assumed all with Sansa was at least pacified. Their days in the woods went fine, were a resounding success. The king was beyond tickled.

Yet, Curufin’s heels were dogged every step by Caranthir’s overbearing and silent presence. It was… unnerving and upsetting. More than it should have been. More than it ever used to be when their ears were still pointed. The resolute stalemate with Caranthir grated at something in his chest, but there was assuredly nothing to be done for it. They fought. They’d always fought, they were always going to fight, and the silly childhood camaraderie of Curufin Baratheon and Caranthir Lannister was just that.

Childish. 

The sons of Feanor were fractious, with their ambitions and staggering strengths and wildly conflicting priorities. They were each pieces of their father, and the spirit of fire had burned from within until he was naught but dust. It was no wonder his disparate children were the same when they came together.

Curufinwë and Morifinwë most of all, with Turkafinwë picking sides.

Curufin rode back to Winterfell satisfied, but discontent. Tired. He was more than ready to crawl back into his bed and wait for the announcement that they would be heading back south soon. Celegorm would come with them, and though he was with Caranthir right now, that wouldn’t last. It never did. To Curufin, it didn’t currently seem like a good idea to have all the sons of Feanor back in one space together again, but they were fast approaching that day. Once that happened, their true purpose, whatever it may be, could begin to take shape.

And then–

A rider came screeching up to meet them, shouting and yelling for Lord Stark, but making a racket of his message for all to hear.

“Lord Stark! Lord Stark, come quick! Lord Bran has fallen from a tower!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even I wasn't prepared for how massively in denial Curufin is about a lot of things. But he is thirteen, so I think we can cut him some slack. And he is thirteen in his mental development. He's 'mature' and remembers being older, but he isn't physically grown enough to really process anything as an adult in his underdeveloped mind. I doubt elves understand the science of that though, so he's making assumptions. Childish ones.
> 
> BTW, Aikanaris, Lanyë, and Ravennië, who we will later hear more about later, are my interpretations of the unnamed wives. Though I LOVE Haleth/Caranthir (why don't they have a ship name?), so my hc is that Lanyë and Caranthir were just engaged. They will probably get more mentions, Aikanaris and Ravennië mostly, because, I mean, your wife is a pretty significant person in your life. Curufin and Maglor both are probably agonizing. 
> 
> But, tell me what you think! Do you think Curufin's reaction was justified? Could Celegorm do a worse job of laying low? Is Bran dead? (lol, no) We're rolling, friends. Next chapter we get a move on south, and Celegorm gets a chance to narrate. If you enjoyed this leave a comment or a kudos, it means the world to me like you can't imagine. Either way, thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Celegorm I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to find a moment to process your emotional scarring when you have two moms, three dads, two demanding uncles, a slew of tiny cousins, six dramatic brothers, and a pack of wolfs, one of which is an angel. Celegorm's life got very weird all at once. All he can do now is try to go where he's needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, we all sing the praises of she_who_recs, Slayer of Excessive Commas.
> 
> NOTE: I explicitly reference details of elven aging in this chapter. Tolkien says their first majority is 50, when they are 'fully grown', then the second is 100, where they are 'adults'. I do things slightly differently, and my elves are like, 13 at 50. I justify this by saying most Medieval cultures have 13 be the age when someone is considered a semi-adult; they are 'grown'. So in my mind, once elves have their first majority they go off to apprentice and find a trade, and then are certified-adults by 100, which is more like 20. Here's how I compute it: elves canonically age like humans for the first three years of their lives. After that, 5 human years = 1 elf year, in terms of physical aging for me. So all elf-to-human ages are EA÷5+3=HA (w/remainder), e.g.: 37÷5+3=10 R. 2. Got it? Cool.

The king’s party was slow to declare their departure, and even slower to actually withdraw from the North. The whole process dragged along as if sick, hampered by both the people who wanted to leave but were bound to stay, and those who wanted to stay but were bound to leave. Deep sorrow hung over everyone’s heads, and Celegorm couldn’t help but feel the protracted grief was so much worse than if Bran was simply dead.

He didn’t dare say it out loud, though. It wouldn’t help, and there was so much help that was needed. Hardly any that could be given, though.

There was not a soul alive who could break the frigid shell of Uncle Ned, and Celegorm knew better than intrude on Lady Stark’s grief, which he could not find much empathy for anyway. But the children… 

Well, there was Rickon, who didn’t understand why his brother was asleep and wouldn’t wake. He was too young to explain anything to; Celegorm could only bounce the babe in his arms and hope this would not affect him too badly. Sansa wept and wept. She was receptive to all comfort that didn’t come from bastards, though, so Celegorm didn’t need to soothe her tears. Arya spit and shrieked, channeling all her sorrow into anger in a way that used to make him think of Lady Stark. Now, though, the scene seemed more reminiscent of Curufin’s scenes, Arya and his little brother’s foot-stomping overlapping in an odd mental image. Celegorm took her riding on two occasions, trying his damnedest to tucker the girl out so much that she could be carried to bed for much needed rest.

The older boys were worse. 

Tears can be wiped from children’s faces and shadows warded off with candles. The hurts of young ones were the same hurts of animals: tangible, things that could be dealt with by the hands. They accepted all comfort at face value, and could be lulled until that faith was broken. The trick was being honest, so that they were not shattered if things turned out poorly. Celegorm was practical, he was good at that. But he never knew how to comfort those who hid their crying and were chased by fears of the mind. Those who had already lost their faith in the power of others.

Robb was frantic, as he had every right to be. The boy was being given command of Winterfell and the entire North, losing his father and sisters, and his younger brother would not wake. The whole situation made Celegorm think of Maglor, and the look on his elder brother’s face when Nelyo didn’t come back. The horror with which their bard had regarded that crown.

The benefit to being a bastard unbeholden to anyone was that your little cousin might let himself cry in your arms. The downside was that there was nothing you could do to fix his problems. The worst part came when that same child, who was making the transition to adulthood, pulled away, and you knew wiping his tears did nothing to make him feel better in the long term.

Jon was a larger ball of pain and uncertainty. How could he be expected to process what had happened? He wasn’t even allowed to visit Bran!

But Jon– Jon Snow, who had about as much nothing as Celegorm Snow, except _less_ – was dogged by one problem Celegorm could fix as it came time to leave Winterfell. And by the gods, he loved very little more than solving what problems he could get his hands on.

He went to Uncle Ned six days past Bran’s fall. 

Then, Celegorm found Jon.

The boy was exiting the smithy, something strange for him. But Celegorm shook his head and threw that concern away as he approached his cousin. It was normal to find his family in the blacksmith’s domain. Why did he even register that as odd?

“Jon!” Celegorm barked, but it was more a warning than a greeting. He grabbed Jon’s arms from behind and pulled him along, listening to Jon squawk and flail. Ghost ran, eternally silent, in a small distressed circle around his master and Celegorm, following at their heels. Huan snuffled at his littermate to calm Ghost’s barred teeth, nudging him along in play as all four of them exited the keep. Ignoring all protests, both from the man and his wolf, Celegorm dragged Jon to a corner of the godswood that was wet and private. After Jon settled his feet firmly in the ground, he scowled– an expression that was not quite as impressive as Uncle Ned’s yet. Ghost sat angrily next to him, giving a look that was just as imperious as his human’s.

Celegorm grinned at Jon’s pouty face. Huan gave a pleased bark.

“Now don’t make that look at me, I’ve got good news! The first good news in awhile,” Celegorm all but muttered; Jon’s face changed, something between melancholy and uncertainty. Naturally. Jon didn’t know much good news. Celegorm smiled again, more restrained. Genuine and fond.

“I know you’ve been talking to you father about what to do when he goes south,” Celegorm said, voice as quiet as he could go– it was, admittedly, a normal volume, but relativity was important. Jon, for his part, shifted as if this signalled some level of severity to the quiet child. Which was hilarious to Celegorm, because Jon had never seen him truly serious, no matter what the child might think. Celegorm, when taken by severity, was anything but quiet. Ghost might never bark, but Huan’s growls and howls were fearsome. 

But, of course, Jon wouldn’t know that. Naturally. Jon wasn’t alive for the war. The war that took place somewhere else. Somewhen? Celegorm shook his head, violently and noticeably, and continued.

“And I know you said you’d take the Black. But I would like to say, no, you aren’t doing that. You are going to be my squire!”

Celegorm made a pose, throwing his arms into the air theatrically and grinning like a fool. Jon gaped, which was expected. Then the silence stretched on longer than Celegorm anticipated. Agonizing seconds ticked away slowly. He put down his hands.

“You’re making a jape,” Jon finally said.

“I’m not. Uncle and I have already figured it all out.”

“I– I… you really want _me_?” Celegorm nodded. “You want me to be your squire.” Celegorm nodded again, this time with a bit more force. Jon was breathing heavily. Distress, he was overwhelmed. His mouth moved. Confusion. “What about the Night’s Watch?”

Uncle Ned had mentioned that.

“What _about_ the Night’s Watch? Now you don’t have to go to that forsaken wasteland!”

Celegorm imagined the Wall as Himlad or Himring, a monument of awe and ugliness standing high above the snow; desolate, perfunctory, and isolated. He saw his family maintaining watch for an enemy that hardly ever came, wasting their lives on chance. He could still feel the inaction in his bones while they agonized and shivered. The monotony of that dreary life was only broken up the the occasional _loss_ , never victory, and then the other foot dropped. All at once there was that terrible day, those many terrible days, when the Enemy actually did come out to play, knocking Celegorm’s and Curufin’s gates down. And by that point they were all so frozen and stiff that the sudden rush of hot blood to their systems broke something rather than defrosted it.

To be stationed at Morgoth’s gates, then cut down by either his own or the enemy’s fiery rush of anguish and incandescent fury… Celegorm would never put Jon through that. They’d sent Tyelperinquar away for a reason.

Celegorm tried not to sneer at Jon’s protests.

“There’s honour in the Night’s Watch!”

“Oh, _certainly_.”

“There is! Uncle Benjen is–”

“I know about Uncle Benjen!” He knew their uncle was an exhausted, miserable man, no longer the pleasant and curious youth of Celegorm’s childhood. “I know! I know, okay? I get it, and I’m not saying that there’s nothing _honorable_ about it. I’m just…” Celegorm bit down on his back teeth and made a gravelly, frustrated sound. Huan nudged him, and Celegorm scratched his ears. The action defrosted his mental faculties a little. “All I want is… you’re just a child, Jon! And the Night’s Watch, that’s eternal. I just want, I want… I want you to have options! Options, yes! You can do more than join the Brothers, Jon! Come on, be my squire. Become a knight. And then, when you’re older and you’ve got more to lose, if you still want to join the Night’s Watch with Uncle Benjen, you can. Renounce your title as a knight and take the Black. But give yourself some options, Jon. Dig out of that snowy hole… Please. Let me help you.”

Celegorm watched as Jon slowly processed everything he had said. The boy looked away and blinked his eyes rapidly, opening and closing his fists. Celegorm felt excitement grow in his chest. And then, after a few moments, Jon drew a ragged breath, his stoic expression cracked, and he nodded.

Celegorm could have wept. He lunged forward; pulled at Jon’s shoulders to drag him into an engulfing embrace. Jon shuddered in his arms– so touch-deprived and affection-starved. Celegorm tried to ignore the rising fury at his cousin’s mistreatment, as the boy clutched him back. Now was a happy time. Now was not when he should get angry. He just gripped Jon tighter instead.

They could do so many wonderful things together!

“It’ll be great! I can’t wait for you to see, we’ll go travelling, and we’ll camp in the woods, and Huan and Ghost can run free. it’ll be just like those times when Curvo and I were–” _When Curvo and I were wandering Beleriand._

Celegorm’s mouth went dry. _Jon doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know Curvo, and he’s… Jon’s not Curufin’s cousin. He’s not_ our _cousin. Is he even my cousin?_

Celegorm pulled back, very suddenly, jarring Jon and disturbing the direwolves. He gazed at Jon’s startled face, framed by unruly black curls and displaying grey eyes and he looked like Aredhel. Irissë had a son.

He felt his own face go ashen. _This is Jon. Jon! Nose-scrunching, unable to dress himself formally, his favorite treats are blackberries; Jon. He’s your favourite cousin, Tyelko!_

_Irissë is my favourite cousin._

A shallow whine, close-mouthed and too quiet to be heard by anyone but the wolves, fell from Celegorm’s lips. Huan echoed, butting against his shins. Jon held on to his arms, watching as Celegorm’s face cracked, just a little.

“Celegorm? Are you okay? Who’s… _Cuur-vo_?”

Celegorm drew in a quick but deep breath, and exhaled just as forcefully. He shook his head. He tried to ignore the odd, dueling memories floating around his brain. It was rather confusing, to remember two ninth nameday celebrations. Or was it ‘Begetting Day’? Why did he have two different favorite cousins? 

What was the color of his mother’s hair?

“Nothing!” he barked, all cheer and good humour, with a slight self-deprecating laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Curvo’s… he’s just an old friend, he–” Celegorm swallowed. “Don’t worry about it. You’re my squire now! Go, go find Uncle Ned and figure out what you need. We’re going south, too. I’ve got a lot to do before then, I’ve got to… I need to visit my mother. Tonight.”

_By the gods, I miss Amil._

Without waiting for a response, Celegorm pushed Jon along. The boy loitered with narrowed eyes for a worrisome minute, but eventually walked away. Perhaps he thought Celegorm just needed a moment alone, because Jon certainly didn’t think he was alright. Maybe Jon just didn’t want to fight in the godswood. He was always the most pious of Uncle Ned’s children.

Then, as soon as Jon was out of seeing and hearing range, Celegorm collapsed. He fell back against one of the trees and slid down. Huan pushed up against his side, and Celegorm gratefully wrapped his arms around the wolf. This had been happening rather often. 

The past two months… nothing had made much sense since finding the direwolves. The world seemed to go hazy at random, the previously familiar woods of Winterfell blurring with the half-remembered visage of something like Taur-en-Faroth. Together, the images would create a maze of conflicting knowledge, a hellscape of disorientation. The people were worse. Uncle Ned and Uncle Arafinwë were _nothing_ alike, but sometimes his mind jumbled which one liked trout and how he was supposed to greet who. Not even his brothers, his fellow Elven expatriates, were spared. Celegorm wasn’t sure how he felt about Maedhros anymore, his master, his teacher, his brother, his… It felt wrong now, to think about Maedhros Tully, impossible to reconcile him with Nelyo. 

Only Huan brought no confusion with him.

He rode for Ironrath that night.

Celegorm had been avoiding returning to the Forrester ancestral home, not least of all because he dreaded the confirmation that Jocelyn Forrester had brown hair. But his confusion had reached a fever pitch, and it was only getting worse. If he didn’t take this problem by the reins it would escalate, just like the last time he felt his control and worst impulses slipping from him. This had to be dealt with, and his mother had always been the solution to his problems. Jocelyn and Nerdanel both.

Not to mention, Mother would cry if he went south again without visiting.

The wolfswood was, in Celegorm’s humble opinion, a very beautiful place to grow up. It was large and silver, sturdy and old, and the needles smelled nice. Crisp, clean, sharp; the exact antithesis of the swampy south. Ironrath was fine as well, as far as houses went. There was something about Ironrath that blended well with the wood and stone around it, and if one didn’t want to go through the front gate, they didn’t have to!

Celegorm made a habit of climbing the rock face the keep was built upon. He did so in order to avoid having to declare his presence to Uncle Gregor whenever dealing with his extended family was too much trouble. This time, Huan took a running start before jumping into Celegorm’s arms so that he could pitch his friend up the wall. From there, Huan scrambled the last few feet. Celegorm followed with a more traditional climb. Then, together, they successfully sneaked around the heralds and shushed the exasperated servants. Celegorm was only here for one person right now.

Even if he wasn’t sure how to talk to her anymore.

Jocelyn Forrester lived in a small wing separate from the house proper; almost its own cottage, if not for that one hallway. It was small and cozy and decorated eclectically. Her mother’s husband had gifted it to Jocelyn when she was fifteen-years-old and pregnant, after it was decided she would not being going to Winterfell. In that small home, she raised her son, spending many a stretch of time alone, especially after Brandon’s death. For being so close to a large family, it was a remarkably solitary life, marked by quaint dinners and walks through the forest. Mother and son might venture to the main house on occasion, but none came to visit the bastards of Ironrath. Not even the children.

Jocelyn, Celegorm knew, considered their home a sanctuary, far from prying eyes and evil whispers. Her son saw it as little more than another sign of their outcast status. The house was a cage to keep them close, not safe. 

But as he opened that sturdy wooden door they had so long ago painted green, Celegorm could admit he held some affection for the place. 

After coming into the empty front room, Celegorm drew a deep breath. He ran his fingers through Huan’s fur, his still rather small friend turning his snout to nuzzle at his hand and make inquisitive eyes. Celegorm gave a firm scratch and smiled. Softly, he tread deeper into the hearth room of his childhood home, the one that hadn't truly belonged to him since he was eleven. With quiet sounds and gentle movements, Celegorm told Huan the room’s story.

On those warm, red carpets, he and his mother played silly games about horses and wolves. The spot next to the window was where the father he only just remembered threw him so high Celegorm almost hit the ceiling. Above the mantle rested his poor attempts at sketching flowers, settled next Jocelyn’s more skilled works of art. That awful, orange quilt over the loveseat was what he would curl in when resting his head on her lap. There was a hidden cupboard next to the fireplace that was meant to house wood, but remained staunchly empty. It was in that small dark space that Jocelyn wept for the lost father of her child. After the crowning of a Baratheon king, it was there that she tucked her silver-haired five year-old when the new Lord Stark came knocking.

Celegorm paused for perhaps too long there, because Huan gave a soft lick to his wrist. 

Celegorm simply smiled in return, an expression filled with old pain but true healing, and they walked on. From there, the man and the wolf, the Elf and the Maia, explored the rest of the little house. The sparse kitchen was covered in flour from some wild baking experiment, the bed in Celegorm’s room was too small, the chest with his toys was covered in dust, and his mother’s study lacked his mother. 

They tried out the back, even as Celegorm’s heart thundered in his chest. He envisioned red hair, strong arms, no-nonsense scolding, brash laughter, absent-minded tapping, endless stories, exasperated compassion, poorly cooked _lembas_ … well. Celegorm wondered how Jocelyn would now appear while competing with such odd memories.

_Amil._

Jocelyn Forrester was born to a former handmaiden of Queen Rhaella, four months after the woman quietly married Thorren Forrester in King’s Landing. There wasn’t a single thing Northern about her features. She was a diminutive woman, scrawny, her fingers nimble and callused. Her pale skin freckled and her brown hair got lighter in the sun, though the North never gave her much opportunity for either. Jocelyn’s nose was button-shaped, her cheekbones sharp. 

Her eyes were undeniably violet. Everyone politely chose not to mention it.

She was seated on a stone wall when Celegorm and Huan approached, eyes flickering back between a book of blank papers and raven. When she noticed her son, Jocelyn gave a small shriek before throwing her things down. She shot up, and dashed across the small space, ineffectively throwing her arms around his much-larger frame.

Celegorm bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. She appeared the same as always.

“Baby!”

“Ma!”

Celegorm bent over, held his tiny mother, and let out the breath he had been holding for two months. She felt the same. Tucking his nose in her hair smelled the same. This realization relieved some of the anxiety buzzing through Celegorm’s veins, but the worst of his fear still lurked in the pit of his stomach. He could not forget that it was him who was changed, not Mother.

They stayed locked in each other’s grasp for a while, taking in that warmth and comfort before all the hard things had to be said. They only broke apart when Huan gave an impatient bark.

“Oh,” Mother whispered, sounding faint. “Is this the wolf?” Celegorm had written Jocelyn three different letters trying to explain Huan. He’d only sent one of them. He never properly managed to articulate his friend, fingers shaking as he realized he _couldn’t_ tell his mother about just who the little wolf was. What he was. What Celegorm was!

Once upon a time… Celegorm told Ma _everything._

“Aye,” he said quietly, instead of desperately pouring out how his entire world view was now irrevocably shaken. “Greet him, don’t worry, he won’t bite. The direwolves are smart, he… Huan knows who you are.”

Jocelyn knelt slowly, and was cautious with her hand when she raised it. But Celegorm’s mother had always had an unabating love of animals. Hounds, horses, forest critters, and especially the birds; they all seemed to have found their way into Jocelyn and Celegorm’s small alcove at one point or another. She held out her palm for the still small wolf to sniff at, but Huan simply placed his soft head in her grasp with no preamble. Instantly, Mother grinned in response, scratching and cooing at Huan with unabashed sweetness. Celegorm had to laugh, a startled, awkward sound that was nothing like him.

Feeling very off balance, he sent Huan an apology over Mother’s shoulder. Everyone was going to treat him like a dog, weren’t they? Not many recognized him as either the fearsome and wise creature of the other direwolves, or the completely sentient Maia he truly was.

Mother giggled like a much younger woman, her face buried in Huan’s fur. “He’s so precious! I’m going to be honest, I’m blindingly jealous right now, baby! If you don’t come back to visit every month, I’m going to track you down myself, and not for your sake. Just to visit this beautiful boy. Huan, right?”

This was… it was exactly how he expected Mother to react, and yet–

Yet, he somehow wanted her to not be quite so doting, to exhibit more… curiosity. Restraint and pleasant respectfulness, like Nerdanel when he brought Huan home the first time. 

When he spoke his voice was faint. “Aye. Huan.”

Jocelyn tensed where she was kneeling. She’d noticed. Obviously, of course, she always noticed. There was not an injury or a twinge or a slight fever or the barest hurt feeling that Celegorm could ever hid from Mother. Many a time, as a child, he’d run to hid in the forest or ride all the way to Winterfell, rather than face his mother’s watery eyes and sad sighs. Jocelyn’s strength laid in her endurance, not resilience. Only now did Celegorm think… had that been what he was longing for? Did a part of him never want to face Jocelyn because he knew Amil’s comfort would have been different?

More what he needed?

She stood, and Jocelyn moved to occupy Celegorm’s space. She stood on her tiptoes, eyes boring into his gaze with all the ferocity of a particularly peeved bunny. Jocelyn reached up to cup her tiny hands on his cheeks, angling him so that he could not ignore, dismiss, or try to mislead her.

“What’s wrong, sweetling?” she stressed softly, gaze widening with sympathy. “I heard about Little Bran.”

“Ma,” Celegorm breathed, something desperate coming to his chest. Bran, he could talk about Bran. “It’s just awful. They don’t know if he’s ever going to wake up! He’s just a baby, and if he even does– Mmmm,” he whined, low in his throat. “Maester Luwin says he’s never going to _walk_ again, and we’re all _leaving_. What’s it gonna be like if Bran wakes up and Uncle Ned isn’t there? And Robb is a wreck, that kid’s got so much on his shoulders, it’s like–”

 _Like what?_ , an insidious voice whispered in his ear, _like Gil-Galad? Like_ Dior? 

Celegorm’s throat closed up. Mother was blinking at him, her porcelain fingers still cradling his face. Nerdanel could have never managed that look: wide and gentle and earnestly sweet. Her comfort was always fiercer, built on burning protectiveness and the ability to change. Amil was made of tougher stuff, like a mountain that could not be moved, one that easily managed to carry the weight of a thousand problems. Jocelyn was more… a daffodil, swaying in the wind, one that pushed past the snow with unstoppable determination. She gave respite to weary travellers, she didn’t break challenges against her immovable will.

What had Celegorm been expecting of her? What did he want? He bit down on his back teeth, torn between that need for resolution– for the problem to be taken from his hands– and the desire to let it all fall away in warm comfort. He blinked rapidly and shook his head. Huan whined, and Mother, as always, saw his conflict clearly. 

“Oh no, there’s something more. Will you tell me?”

Ah, yes, that was what hurt more: that he didn’t have a choice. His mother was gone, completely lost to him, and with her those many days in her arms with her hair pulling-antics as well. 

Celegorm loved Jocelyn; she was the only person he loved for a very long time. But when her face screwed up and she tugged on a loose braid falling in his face, it hurt. Because he had loved Nerdanel too, for ages and ages, and the full force of that love had just hit him like a tidal wave instead of growing slowly and naturally. And he couldn’t talk about it!

Celegorm wanted Maedhros.

Curufin and Caranthir loved him, Celegorm saw it, he knew it. Maedhros loved him. More importantly, his brothers _needed_ him. That was his family! So Nerdanel was his mother. After all, Curvo did not care for his… New? Second? False? Well, he didn’t love the Baratheons. Caranthir said he was closer to Curufin than his _other brothers_.

But Moryo also said he was confused. By the gods, they tucked that stupid Lannister kid into his bed! But one can have a lot of brothers.

The same didn’t apply to mothers.

Did it?

He felt Mother’s fingers move from his hair to his face again, where they gently wiped at the tears he hadn’t even noticed. She didn’t say anything, just flattened her lips in that way that said, _‘I’m here for the hard stuff. Whatever you need, I’m here.’_

Celegorm choked on a laugh. “It’s been a… _a lot_. A lot in two months.”

Jocelyn simply hummed, pushing him up straight and stepping back. With gentle pushes, she guided him back inside, saying, “Well, the first step to feeling better in any situation is grooming. Let me get my brush, I’ll fix your hair. I don’t know why I worried I’d miss out on these womanly bonding moments. You’re as bad as any daughter could have ever been.”

The chuckle he gave in response was forced. Jocelyn didn’t say anything, but Huan stuck close to his legs. Too close almost, the wolf nearly tripping him once, but the comfort was appreciated all the same. When his mother pushed him down onto her bed, Celegorm pulled his legs up and crossed them. Huan jumped up and sat his head in Celegorm’s lap without prompt or reprimand. Jocelyn’s eyes merely softened when she turned around to see the animal on her clean furs.

Nerdanel never allowed beast-shaped creatures, Maia or not, on her finely crafted furniture. Ma invited it. 

Celegorm’s shoulders curled in on themselves.

Softly, Jocelyn knelt on the bed behind him. She went about pulling away his ties and picking out the pins. With nimble artist’s fingers, she plucked apart his braids, and Celegorm leaned back, letting the simple comfort of his mother’s presence sooth him. This was unique; this routine was not something Celegorm shared with Nerdanel, and it always made him feel treasured.

Jocelyn was not good, had never been good, at denying her son things. She had so little to give, why not shower everything she could on her rejected child? Uncle Gregor grumbled and complained ceaselessly about Celegorm’s hair when it started to get too long, saying he looked like a maid. So Jocelyn, who could not bear cutting the little boy’s dangerous, beautiful locks when he asked her not to, looked her little _half-brother_ in the eyes and laughed. “If anyone mistakes my son for a maid, I’ll be more worried about them and their eyesight.” 

Celegorm was nine at the time, and already tall and broad, with filthy trousers. His mother did his hair every morning, trying new braids and styles that exasperated his uncle.

Uncle Gregor… was an odd figure in Celegorm’s life. 

Celegorm didn’t see the Starks very often when he was young and a menace. His mother wasn’t a firm hand. So, it always fell to Gregor to discipline his sister’s bastard child, creating no end of tension. He was a strict and fair man, but he lacked Uncle Ned’s cool, powerful bearing, and occasionally he said cruel things when pushed to the end of his temper. Celegorm liked Gregor a bit more now that he was grown and could see his uncle’s good humor. Celegorm, also, now possessed the hindsight of an adult; he realized that he was truly unbearable before Maedhros, throwing fits specifically to call Uncle Gregor’s ire down on his head. He had never even hated his _half-uncle_ as a child. He just wanted Lord Forrester’s love, and, if he couldn’t have that, his attention would do.

Mother had Gregor’s care, after all, strained and awkward and distant as it was. They were siblings. They got along like… like… was the word he was looking for ‘Atar’? Yes, it was.

Like Atar and Findis; childhood care turned to adult fondness. Politics and ‘halfs’ then created a barrier to the love they had already grown before knowing better. It made for an odd adult relationship.

No, Uncle Gregor was family– divided and strict as the relationships were– whatever ‘family’ meant when Celegorm now had two. The old Lord Forrester, though…

Never had Celegorm feared a man as much.

“Ma,” he blurted suddenly, mouth taken by the question before his consciousness even knew what it was. “Ma, did you… Your…”

“Yes, dear?”

Celegorm sighed. He thought of Nerdanel standing next to Jocelyn, and swallowed. He took the plunge.

“The old Lord Forrester… was he your father? Did you consider him you father?”

He felt the brush his mother had been running through his long hair stop. Celegorm closed his eyes, clenched his fingers in Huan’s fur, and hoped he hadn’t just crossed a line.  
For all the openness between him and Jocelyn, they never really just came out and said such dangerous things; only alluded. 

Everyone who cared about House Forrester– those few– knew that Jocelyn Forrester was a bastard. When she was brought to Ironrath with purple eyes by a King’s Landing lady, people talked about Aerys. Calling the Snow girl ‘Forrester’ was a charade, an act, and a kindness to her mother, the Lady Maelyn Goodbrook Forrester, they said. From the beginning, Jocelyn was regarded as unmarriageable. That was why, it was whispered, Brandon Stark considered her so disposable. It was why she hadn’t cared that Brandon wanted her maidenhead but not her hand. She was bastard; she would be an eternal burden on her brother, and no one wanted her. But Brandon did.

Then Aerys was dead, and people were a bit more discreet with their talking. As silly and loose as Jocelyn was, as wild as her little boy was, no one wanted them _dead_.

No one had plainly told Celegorm he was of Targaryen blood. They didn’t have to.

After a few moments of pause, Jocelyn’s movements started again. Then she spoke, voice steady and clear of bitterness, but undeniably subdued. She sounded like she lacked any real emotion or investment in the situation. 

“I called him father. He was kind to me too, all the toys I wanted, pink dresses. He made sure my lessons were in order, Mother was very concerned about that. I thought he was my father, until I was about… oh, five? Four? About the time Gregor was born. And Thorren was so different with Gregor. I was more a niece than a daughter to him, I think. Mother said men are different than women, they don’t understand children until they hold their baby, but… I mean, he was there when I was born. And, of course, people talking didn’t help. We just never had that type of relationship. Let’s put it this way, I didn’t mourn for him the way I did Mother.”

Her brushing stopped again, all of a sudden, and that was when Celegorm realized he was shaking, full body. Celegorm put a hand to his mouth and hunched, but Jocelyn was quicker. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Celegorm’s waist, pressing against her son’s back and squeezing tight.

“Oh no, oh baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–” And ugly sound fell from Celegorm’s lips, and he wanted desperately to bury his head in Mother’s lap and cry. Huan sat up, started nuzzling at Celegorm’s neck, making soft sounds. The man hardly noticed.

_What is this? Why does this hurt so much?_

“Shhh, sssshhhhh. Listen to me, listen, please baby. I didn’t mean it like that, me and Thorren, it was– Sweetling, that was just me. Please baby, that doesn’t mean it’s the same for you. There’s nothing wrong if you see Lord Tully as you father.”

A strangled yelp came from Celegorm, and he straightened up in a instant. He whined in question, and Mother resolutely clutched him more fiercely. _Maedhros? You think this is about Maedhros?_

Oddly enough, Jocelyn didn’t hear his mental inquiries.

“I know you don’t remember Brandon. There’s nothing wrong with that. I never knew my father! We don’t have to feel affection for those who sired us, that’s a dangerous and foolish quest for a bastard. And there’s nothing… nothing _lesser_ about loving Lord Tully like you father. Oh, I wish I had that, baby, and you shouldn’t feel bad or upset for it.”

“I love Father,” Celegorm whispered, not really sure what he was saying. What he felt was, _I love you._

“And you can, you can. But you can love Lord Tully too, he took care of you for so long. When I _couldn’t_ , he helped you. I’d be more concerned if you didn’t love him! And you _should_ love him and Brandon both, if you want. You can love two fathers, baby, and how you feel about one doesn’t diminish how you love the other. It’s not like Gregor loves Rodrik more than Asher or Mira, it’s the same thing in reverse for parents and children.”

Celegorm gave a long and ragged breath, a noise that could have been much louder if he had the energy. Then, he turned. He twisted his torso awkwardly and disturbed Huan, but he was desperate to reach for his mother; everything else was tossed aside. He threw his arms around her shoulders; poor Jocelyn was all but flattened, but she didn’t pause. She merely tightened the grip around his waist that she’d never let go of.

And Celegorm cried. He cried for Nerdanel, and Brandon, and Feanor, and Maedhros, and he thanked the old gods and the new and the Valar for Ma. 

He would have to ride back to Winterfell tomorrow, back to his bickering brothers, his broken baby cousin, all the distraught children. Tomorrow he had to pack to go south again. But lying in his long-abandoned childhood home, Celegorm let Mother hold him and allowed himself to believe things were easy. This was easy; he could love two mothers!

Nerdanel, Celegorm believed, would agree.

Parting from Mother the next day was especially painful, but Uncle Ned and Jon were expecting him back. It was probably best he didn’t visit long. Celegorm’s tongue was loose and his desire for comfort great, so he was likely to not last half a week before telling Mother everything. Caranthir would kill him. 

Not to mention, he was needed at Winterfell, where the situation was still delicate, in a lot of ways. Caranthir and Curufin were both lonely, and too stupid to make up with each other. They needed company. And Robb couldn’t, he just couldn’t, be the eldest right now. He needed Celegorm to help watch the little ones while he transitioned into being acting _Lord Paramount of the North_. Jon needed to be guided so that he packed appropriately.

There were things that needed to be done.

As the forest fell away to rolling fields, Celegorm tried to remind himself of that.

The last few days in Winterfell were a frenzy, and there was no excitement in the tasks. Not even Sansa packed her dresses happily. When they finally set out– after many tearful goodbyes– they did so hastily, as if everyone was frightened they’d never leave if they loitered. Celegorm and Jon rode in the back of the train, and he caught his tied-for-favourite cousin looking back several times. Especially once Uncle Benjen broke off from them.

For his part, Benjen seemed relieved Jon was going to squire rather than take the Black. Celegorm felt vindicated.

The second they crossed the Neck, Celegorm could feel the change in the air.

He’d wondered if the journey south would be less jarring. Perhaps, he thought, as Tyelkormo, the heat would not make his skin crawl, the headier smells would not twitch his nose, and the endless stickiness wouldn’t make his clothes unbearable. This did not come to pass, and Celegorm Snow was as agitated as always to be leaving the North. But perhaps there was more to it.

After all, for the first time in almost a decade, he was mournful to be leaving Winterfell.

Their travel after reaching the Riverlands was slower. Leisurely. Annoying. He had underestimated the issue of travelling with a whole host of teenagers and children who he was expected to look after. Sometimes, Celegorm wondered how his life came to this. He was a knight! A hedge knight, true, but one nonetheless, not a babysitter for his uncle and the king. 

Jon was easy enough, he followed instructions well and took to training adequately. Celegorm would grab him each day after they made camp, and they would ride out to somewhere isolated. Then the two of them would spend a few hours practicing form or going through patterns, before Celegorm mock-dueled the boy. The only problem was that his new squire decided to bring Arya along one day. Which wouldn’t be that troublesome, except she then proceeded to show off a little sword that Jon had commissioned for her!

Celegorm, more so than most Elves, possessed very few problems with the concept of training girls to use swords or bows. When Irissë, several decades his junior, professed a desire to go on hunts and shoot and carry weapons, it was Celegorm who broke her out of Tirion. He had gifted her a bow made of yew for her second majority. The one angry, bitter, heart-shattering conversation they shared in Beleriand ended with an exchanging of daggers; her beautiful one from Valinor for the stronger, duller fare Curufin had been making recently. Celegorm’s problem with Arya tagging along wasn’t her dresses. It was that she was a child.

He could stomach teaching Jon combat, barely, because Tyleperinquar was also just past his first majority when Celegorm shoved a sword in his hands. Westeros and Beleriand were more dangerous than Valinor, that was just fact, and some traditions needed to be compromised for safety. But Arya was _eight_. By Elven standards she was barely twenty-nine! Nonetheless, the little girl had a sword which he couldn’t bring himself to confiscate or report to Uncle Ned, lest both she and Jon get in trouble. Someone had to teach her to use it.

And then Arya brought her little friend Mycah along, and the whole affair escalated. So the training was already stressful. His brothers just compounded it.

Caranthir, the one who should be most above this mess, was resolutely never speaking to anyone. He just kept glaring from where he stood over Curufin’s shoulder, and ocassionally saying pissy things to Celegorm when the older brother asked him to apologize to Curvo. Curufin, for his part, looked like he would rather enjoy locking Caranthir in a box and never seeing him again. Celegorm’s attempts at reconciliation fell flat there as well. One couldn’t just tell Curufin to do things; he had to be coaxed into thinking it was his idea. But none of Celegorm’s efforts had borne any fruit yet. There was also the matter of Sansa, who Curufin wouldn’t be in the general area of. He ran away everytime she went near him, making the poor girl crestfallen.

Which created the biggest problem. Celegorm had been suspicious that this potential scheme was growing, tipped off by giggles and lingering hands. As he watched Prince Joffrey walk up to Sansa and introduce her to a new pair of knights, his concerns were confirmed. The heinous little brat was putting his designs on their little lady!

And she blushed! Celegorm couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could guess at the flattering honey coming out of the kid’s mouth. Sansa’s hands twiddled around, playing with her skirts, and she smiled at Joffrey. In the manner befitting of a prince and a gentleman, Joffrey held out his arm in a way Curufin never would. They walked away, and Celegorm narrowed his eyes.

He had seen this before, between Atar and Nolofinwë, and with Nelyo and Curvo. His father and uncle had played their bitter games with equal enthusiasm, as both of them had competed to try and win something from the other constantly. Prestige, titles, signs of affections, whatever one brother had the other wanted. Curvo’s attempts though… that was more like this. The little brother who thought he deserved what the father’s heir had. That hadn’t been an equal competition, as Maitimo didn’t participate, and Curufin outgrew trying to undermine Nelyo before he was eighty-five. But it left a long and dark mark on their relationship.

The hand of Lord Stark’s daughter was a symbol of Curufin’s heir status, it solidified him as the king’s representative. The eldest, most important son united their houses. Joffrey wanted to overstep his bounds though; he ached for that prestige and power. So, when he couldn’t just snatch the crown from Curufin’s head, Joffrey pursued Sansa as a substitute.

Celegorm gritted his teeth and marched off. He’d probably used up his chances with fighting the little shit. The queen kept giving him looks and the Hound’s eyes followed him everytime Celegorm was in the vicinity. Not to mention, Sansa would cry if he embarrassed her in front of a prince. So, Celegorm went to go find Curufin.

Curvo could punch his brother with no repercussions, and the older prince’s rage at Joffrey might be the only thing to override his shyness. 

Huan split from Celegorm’s side as the larger crowd came into view. He trotted off to go meet with Lady. Celegorm watched, from the corner of his eyes, as the wolves bounded away. They were likely off to play, or to find the other two wolves.

When Celegorm spotted him, Curufin was walking away from a commotion. The king yelling a greeting at a younger knight who looked remarkably like them both. One of the younger Baratheon brothers, maybe? The resemblance was odd; disorientating. Curufin looked… almost exactly the same as he had as an Elf at the equivalent age. He looked like Atar, with a few minor mistakes, yet he also bore an obvious resemblance to Robert Baratheon. So, by that logic, King Robert must look like Atar. He didn’t. 

As he walked up, Celegorm gave a whistle. It was the sound of a bluejay, and an old signal between them. Curufin looked up and caught his brother’s eye instantly, and they adjourned behind a wagon. They still couldn’t really be seen conversing together. Caranthir, apparently, was fine, but social rules meant Celegorm was too lowly to breath the same air as a prince. Just the thought of the queen’s expression if she caught Celegorm Snow talking to her precious children was enough to make him sneer.

When they were adequately alone, Curufin didn’t cross his arms when he settled against the wagon, which really showed just how desperate for company he was. Despite his infamous disdain for other people, Curvo really wasn’t good at long periods of isolation. He loved to talk, to discuss, to ramble, and he desperately needed an outlet. Curufin, like Atar, didn’t always require someone to respond, just to nod and listen. That was where Celegorm and Amil always excelled. Nerdanel and her third son were both good at taking up other projects while still listening to talk that just needed to be heard, not debated. 

Curufin stuck one set of fingers in his belt loops, and the other went about unconsciously picking at the paint of the wagon. Celegorm smiled. Curvo’s hands were always moving, his fingers twitching and fussing and fiddling. He inherited that from their mother. One of the few traits Atarinkë had gotten from Nerdanel.

Celegorm’s faint grin faded quickly, though, as he looked back up at Curufin’s face. He licked his lips. “Are you aware,” he said slowly, “that the blond prince has been flattering Sansa for weeks?”

Curufin raised an eyebrow. _Great, he doesn’t care._

“Do I really need to tell you why that’s bad?” Celegorm sighed.

“I don’t like her.” He shrugged. Celegorm twisted his mouth. 

“Your brat brother– don’t give me that look, it’s just easier to call him that– your brat brother is trying to woo your betrothed. And you don’t care? _Others take me, Curvo!_ Do you… uhh, do you remember that time Atar organized that showcase for apprentice artists, but then Nolofinwë invited all those friends of his and tried to turn it into a weird ball?”

“Urg, _yes_. I made a shield with all that amber, and three people asked if they could buy it. I’m pretty sure Aikanaris nearly hit someone after he said she shouldn’t turn in her sculpture as part of her mastery project.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what Joffrey’s trying to do right now. Except he’s planning on inviting himself to your wedding.”

Curufin drew in a breath. “I’m not going to marry her,” he hissed. But his eyebrows were furrowed and he brought his hands up to his hips. Curufin was bothered, deeply agitated by the implication. 

Celegorm pressed on. “And it was never about how skilled the people Atar was patronizing were. It’s about Grandfather’s regard.”

Curufin bared his teeth for barely a second, before turning on heel. “Right,” he snapped as he strode away. Celegorm fought the urge to smirk.

“They were walking towards the horses!” he cried at his little brother’s back.

Pleased with himself, Celegorm waited behind the wagon for a few more moments before walking around the other side. That was one problem solved, and one brother occupied! _Maybe I’ll go find Moryo,_ he thought, _and we’ll grab Jon, and get some training in._

“Celegorm.”

His movements halted instantly and ungracefully. Celegorm’s shoulders went rigid and his breathing felt like it stopped for a second. An instinctual, childish fear had overtaken him as he turned to meet Uncle Ned’s steady gaze, and Celegorm swallowed. He felt like he’d been caught with a pair of chipmunks in his smallclothes drawer, again.

“I made myself clear. The crown prince isn’t to be antagonized.”

Celegorm huffed, a very indignant sound, but he was distracted from replying by how Uncle Ned’s I’ve-killed-men glare seemed to go from grey to blue for just a split second. Instead, Celegorm simply closed his eyes, and cursed the Old Gods for whatever cruel joke made his subconscious associate Eddard Stark with Arafinwë. 

He blinked his eyes back open to see Uncle Ned’s questioning look for a split second. Then his face went hard again, and, when he spoke, his voice was even more unyielding. 

“Walk with me.”

There was nothing to be said to that.

Celegorm and Ned fell into stride, walking steadily away from the King’s Landing party and the caravan. In silence. Just for something to do, Celegorm ran his thumb along the leather of his sword’s hilt. He really liked this sword. Maedhros bought it for him when he was knighted, and Celegorm had cried. But maybe when Jon was knighted he’d give it to his cousin, and have Curufin forge him a new weapon. Something more… Elven. Did Curufin know how to forge in this life?

Well, of course he still _knew_ how, he would remember, wouldn’t he? But had Curufin Baratheon ever stepped in a smithy? 

Celegorm nearly jumped when Uncle Ned finally spoke, effectively pulling him out of his musings. “Your loyalty to Sansa is admirable, but some battles aren’t worth fighting,” his uncle grunted, and Celegorm fought a sigh.

He couldn’t blame Uncle Ned for assuming he was ready to blacken one or two of Curvo’s eyes. It anyone else had made Sansa cry, he would have, and he was known for coddling the girl. Many members of his family had noticed and questioned his protective streak for Sansa, who had begun to ignore and sniff at her bastard relatives in the last two years. Celegorm hadn’t understood it himself. He wasn’t so careful with Arya or Mira after all. But Mira was sensible and older than the other girls. Arya had Jon.

And that was good. Arya needed Jon. But Sansa was like Curufin, he now realized, stuck in her own view of the world, delicate of heart, and skilled in all those beautiful arts. They both needed a soft hand, someone to soothe their doubts and guide them gently. Curufin and Sansa needed someone to do the ugly stuff for them. Celegorm loved them both, dearly. Even when they were childishly cruel, or selfish. Curufin had said he wouldn’t marry, and Celegorm remembered Aikanaris with enough love to understand that. But he and Sansa would be good together. While Celegorm didn’t want to antagonize Curvo, he did hope to help him be happy again.

But Celegorm couldn’t tell his uncle any of that, so he just shrugged and assumed the role that was expected of him.

“Remind me again why we aren’t still angry?”

Uncle Ned sighed, and Celegorm almost felt bad for asking a question he didn’t care about the answer to. Robb, Lady Stark, Jon, and Arya had questioned Uncle Ned’s decision to let the animosity towards Curufin go; Ned had probably already had this conversation three or four times already. But Celegorm didn’t think it was a good idea to stop making a show of his ‘anger’ at Curufin now. His partiality to the crown prince had already been noted.

“I’m willing to let one slight pass. One. Because the prince is still young, and he was caught off his guard. The prince also apologized unprompted by his parents, and Robb says he seemed sincere. Besides,” Uncle Ned sighed, long and old and weary, “when the day for Arya to be betrothed comes, I doubt she’ll react any better. If I can forgive the coming scene from her, I have to forgive it from Robert’s son.”

Celegorm blinked and turned away from his uncle’s oddly open face. He didn’t like that look on Ned. It made Celegorm smell salt air and feel sand beneath his toes. That expression brought up the phantom pain of watching his favourite uncle turn his back. 

“Right,” Celegorm barked, just to have anything to say. If words came out of his mouth, then thoughts wouldn’t whirl in his head. “Seems legitimate to me. I doubt I’d react any better than the boy prince, and you’re right about Arya. She’s going to be apoplectic.” 

_Almost point-a-sword-at-her-brother mad. Oh gods, why am I teaching her to use a sword?_

Uncle Ned hummed. That didn’t leave him much to go on, so Celegorm kept talking.

“You know, I… I think I remember Aunt Lyanna not being too happy about her betrothal either. She didn’t really like the king, did she? When you and Baratheon visited Winterfell that one time she hid in the nursery with me. I remember! She’d mime him! I bet–” Celegorm stopped suddenly, pausing to lick his lips and glance sidelong at his uncle. 

Mentioning Lord Stark’s brother and sister was always a gamble. Celegorm got a special privilege, the ability to reminisce in the way hardly anyone alive even could. Sometimes Uncle was receptive; sometimes he wasn’t. From the hard set of his shoulders, Celegorm reasoned now wasn’t the best time. “Sorry. I’ve just been thinking about Father and her recently.” 

Uncle Ned threw him a look. Celegorm shrugged.

“It’s just everything with the king. He rambles, you know? Talked all about my father and Aunt Lyanna on the hunt. I don’t think he quite knew what he was saying.”

“I’m sorry about Robert.” Uncle Ned’s tone was so grave, Celegorm let out a startled snort. He shook his head. 

“No, no. Don’t be. I mean, he didn’t really know either of them, did he? But I like talking about Father, gathering what little bits I can get. It makes him feel real, and like… like he’s mine.” Celegorm’s heart pounded, because he _did_ still like talking about Brandon Stark, didn’t he? What a marvel. He had another father to remember and associate with, if he wanted too. He could go find Curufin and Caranthir and reminisce about Valinor and Atar and the good times. Because those lows were rock bottom, but the highs were greater than Taniquetil with Atar.

Maybe he would do that tonight. That could be how he reconciled Curvo and Moryo. 

But right now, Celegorm met Uncle Ned’s grey eyes and wanted to hear that story about the time Brandon Stark jumped his horse across a twenty foot stream. It was a remarkably simple desire, the kind other children didn’t have to feel guilty about or in debt for asking. His confession had obviously caught insular Ned Stark off his guard, though. In fact, Uncle Ned look downright startled, and that grief almost reached surface level. Celegorm could see it in his eyes.

The reaction wasn’t surprising, Uncle Ned never was one for chatting and he didn’t like to talk about his problems. Most of their conversations about Brandon and Lyanna took place in the crypts, or next to the fire in Uncle Ned’s study with Benjen and liberal helpings of brandy.

Celegorm considered waving it all off, apologizing for the trouble, and beating a hasty retreat. He certainly didn’t want to press his uncle painfully, as each word would be a stab to the heart. Not when he had other options for his sentimental mood. But Celegorm had Lord Stark’s attention. He also had, more importantly, his consideration; Celegorm could see it in Ned’s narrowed eyes and off-center jaw. It wasn’t worth it to press for his own sake. But Celegorm had been meaning to bring this up for a long time, slowly gathering courage but sidetracked by… everything recently. Better late than never, though.

Celegorm was probably crossing a line, but he pressed on anyway.

“Jon deserves to be able to talk about his mother too.”

Uncle Ned’s lips thinned and he pushed a sigh from between them. Alright. Not what Celegorm was expecting. But it was blessing, a yield, a chink in his uncle’s impenetrable armour. Celegorm pressed on. 

“I mean it’s been really hard for him. A child growing up without his mother? That’s awful enough already, but not even being to talk about her? It’s like she never even existed, and that’s… that’s terrible. He feels abandoned and alone and… and… incomplete! Like he doesn’t have all the right parts to be a person. Jon probably worries that there’s something broken in him and–”

“Celegorm. I’ve already sworn to Jon that I’ll tell about his mother when he becomes a knight.”

“Oh.” Celegorm stopped and breathed heavily. He hadn’t even noticed he was rambling and now all that sticky emotion caught up with him. Celegorm felt almost sick and faint. Maybe he really should grab Caranthir and sit down. A really long talk, the kind chaos had prevented them from having since the first night, might be in order. Perhaps Celegorm needed to air some grief about Feanor, and their larger family. He couldn’t remember anymore why he thought his grim and dark uncle loved the beach so much. 

“Right. That’s good! I’m glad.” _Better late than never, better late than never._ “Wow, well, that was a lot of honesty for one day. I think I’m just going to go find Huan and clear my head.”

He didn’t give his uncle much time to object– not that Ned would– simply turned on heel and began to walk away.

But then he was halted by Uncle Ned’s words, aimed at Celegorm’s back.

“Celegorm. Thank you, for always watching after Jon.” It was as if everything within Celegorm evaporated into smoke. 

He opened his mouth, released a, “what?” that felt like dust. His heart started beating faster, and a jittery feeling settled over his skin. An anvil seemed to have settled firmly on his chest. Though they were in the temperate south, a cold wind ripped through his bones, and he could almost see the rise and falls of Angband’s mountains in the wagons and carts around him. A roaring was rising in Celegorm’s ears. Every word his uncle replied with seemed distorted and warped.

“You’ve often watched after him well, and you’ve taken him on when you didn’t have too. Given him a chance I couldn’t. Thank you.”

Hearing those words, Celegorm felt like a child again. Something old and hot twinged in his chest, and it caused, like the sparking of two rocks, the dormant tinder of his spirit to light. Celegorm gave a strangled gasp, like he was choking on his own blood. _Why now?_ Why did those innocuous words strike at his temper, which Maedhros so meticulously culled years ago in these very lands? Because Celegorm could now remember decades of his life dedicated to the care and keeping of his brothers and cousins without even a hint of anything more than perfunctory thanks. Because it had been expected. Because Tyelkormo’s family took care of each other.

Celegorm made another sound, one caught between a laugh and a cough, as he remembered being all but dragged away from Winterfell the first time he went south. Then the tears pricked his eyes and the words came back to him.

“Don’t thank me!” he all but howled, spinning around quickly. Uncle Ned shifted, accustomed to Celegorm’s fits but also out of practice, as they had become rarer. The reaction ignited something even deeper and older in Celegorm, as he was all at once remembered why he was the one giving Jon opportunities. _We don’t matter._ If Maedhros hadn’t forced his hand, his uncle might have sent Jon and Celegorm both to Morgoth’s clutches.

“Don’t!” Celegorm screamed, feeling an icy hand grip his heart. “Don’t say stuff like that! Don’t act like I’ve done you a favor or an obligation! I’m took on Jon because he’s my family. He’s my cousin, I love Jon! It’s not an obligation, don’t give me your niceties! I’m not doing you a favor, I help my family, I’m loyal to my family!

“What is wrong with you?” Celegorm stressed, voice high and ragged. “Why can’t you let things be nice for two minutes?!”

“Just take the compliment, Celegorm,” his uncle growled, and Celegorm bristled. He wasn’t even listening! He’d never been listening!

“You’re not doing me a favor! And you’ve never done Jon one either!”

“Quiet!”

“What, you’ll tell him about his mother when he’s knighted? He might be my age before then, and then you’ve robbed him of that! Taken a child’s mother from him, without even scraps? Surrounded him with people _who don’t want him_ and called it a replacement! That’s not kindness!”

“Cease, Celegorm! Know your place.”

The silence pounded like a heartbeat in the air between them. Celegorm could hear his own breath echoing in his ears like a choppy whistle. Then he bared his teeth.

“I do know my place. And I’m not sworn to you or _anyone_. I’m a free man, I can do and say what I want. I’ve always known my place. That was made sure of.”

Damning words said, Celegorm marched away. He stomped and stamped and all but broke out in a run as he neared the edge of camp. There was no destination in mind, but maybe he could find Huan or a nice tree. Maybe a large rock. He needed somewhere to break things. The plan had never been step foot in King’s Landing, but maybe he should just diverge off early and go to all the way Dorne. Who cared if he didn’t know where Maglor was? _It’s better than here!_

Heart pounding in his ears, Celegorm slammed his fist into a tree, pushing all his momentum into that one strike. A ragged cry wrenched its way up from his throat, and he pounded his fist again. And again. Over and over, Celegorm slammed his hand onto the bark, not feeling the skin scrape from his knuckles, the splinters lodging into his nerves, or the blood flowing down his fingers. His breaths echoing in his own ears sounded choppy and hysterical.

He tried to remember what Maedhros always said about controlling himself, about pulling back when the world tunneled and the pressure compounded over itself in his chest. But the words wouldn’t come, lost among Nelyo’s reprimands– _killed Findarato!_ – and the literally dozens of times he’d heard someone proclaim he was going to be sent to the Wall as a criminal. The animals and the trees whispered and whirled around him, and he couldn’t find that peace he’d made with being… a bastard. 

_Because he wasn’t._

For the first time in his life, Celegorm felt like Tyelkormo. Prince of the Noldo.

With a loud, broken gasp, he fell against the bloodied tree, and let out a keening noise. He’d not known what to do with himself, after remembering. Suddenly, Celegorm was seeing visions of another version of himself; a feral rendition, and it was sickening. _I stopped that!_ Celegorm had thought, confined to his bed in agony, _I’m not a criminal, I’m not cursed, I’m not a kinslayer!_ But those dark and bloody memories said different, as they showed the hard times and the infinite tests against his will. And Tyelkormo– a noble and high Elf– had failed. He lost himself amongst it all.

What chance did a bastard hedge knight have?

As some of the burning freshness of the awakening faded, it had seemed so easy to take all the good things Tyelkormo brought with him– Huan, his brothers, those skills– and reject the harsh aspects. Celegorm didn’t want to be an animal, or a monster. But now he saw that those parts were still there; parts of that person were still there. 

Celegorm made another noise, then slid to the ground. He could not say how long he sat, the day lengthening and shadows puppeting bloody sights before his eyes, before a howl broke through his revery. But it wasn’t a wolf’s steps he heard approaching, but a Man’s. Celegorm stood, sword already half drawn and a snarl on his lips before he recognized the figure.

Caranthir.

The older brother sagged, and gave a sigh. “What?” Celegorm spat, and the word warbled. 

Caranthir paused, and he bit the inside of his cheek. Then, gently, and with carefully conveyed motions, he reach for Celegorm’s hand. His little brother gave a hiss through his teeth when he saw the damage, but went to picking out the wood without a word. 

Celegorm felt shame claw at his throat. 

They had been close when young, Carnistir and Tyelkormo, but their interests had diverged and their tempers clashed. Carnistir’s observations were always so much more cutting than Curvo’s, and everything came with an analysis. He just didn’t turn off, and Moryo was so fiercely independent, and Tyelkormo couldn’t handle him half the time.

Being Curvo’s friend– little Curvo, who was stuck in his head and easy to please and didn’t make everything so important– had just been easier.

But as Caranthir Lannister wiped away the blood, Celegorm remembered why he always went to Moryo to confess his hurts and fears and concerns. It was a shame they had all but stopped speaking in Beleriand.

At length, Caranthir finished wrapping his hand. Then he finally spoke.

“Your cousin’s gone.”

“ _What?_ " Celegorm screamed, feeling how raw his vocal cords were.

“The little one–”

“Arya.”

“Aye, Arya. She got into a fight with Joffrey and now she’s gone. Missing, and so is her wolf. Huan’s already searching for them. Curufin’s spitting mad.”

Celegorm let out a ragged, loud noise that was probably a shout. Why, why, why did everything always go wrong at once? Always!

Celegorm didn’t go back to camp for four days. Caranthir ducked in and out of the woods with Jon, bringing news from the caravan and helping search in intervals. Huan found him on the first evening of search, but Arya and the wolves had been running all around these woods. The scents overlapped. Twice, in desperation, Celegorm tried to ask the birds, and hacked a rather impressive gash in a tree, with his sword this time, after that proved futile.

What was he even thinking? Ambarussa had always thought Tyelkormo spoke to the animals in the same way the Quendi communicated with one another. But that was never their language. Some creatures of Arda could learn or mimic Elvish speech, but they didn’t use ‘words’ to understand each other naturally. Celegorm had never thought of his ability to interpret those noises and gestures and intuitions as being… ‘magical’, as the Men called it. But now he realized something fundamental about his understanding of the beasts hadn’t come into this life with him. Celegorm Snow hadn’t ever been able to talk to the creatures of the forests; remembering that Tyelkormo could hadn’t changed that.

Deep into the fourth night, Jon came and fetched him. Arya, he panted, had been found by Jory and was being brought before the king. Nymeria was still missing. They ran back together.

When Celegorm and Jon all but crashed into the main hall of Darry Castle, everyone was already screaming. The queen was screeching, Joffrey was wailing, Arya was crying out angry shouts, Sansa was weeping, King Robert bellowed, Uncle Ned barked replies, and Curufin yelled above them all. Everyone’s faces were red, and Caranthir hovered over Curufin’s shoulder like he was about to grab the boy and hoist him away at any second. 

Curufin was, indeed, spitting mad. Each angry step brought him closer to Prince Joffrey.

“–because you’re a liar! A hateful liar, and he always has been!”

“You weren’t even there!”

“His only defense of his character is to make another lie! I saw plenty and the butcher boy did nothing! Arya Stark made a fool of you by herself!”

“For the sake of the Seven, _silence_ , Curufin!” The king’s echoing order stopped the prince’s steady flow of words. Nonetheless, Celegorm saw Curufin gnash his teeth, as he and Jon fought their way closer.

“Curufin’s account can’t be trusted,” the queen hissed, finally able to make herself heard. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy, but he’s been completely, unreasonably vindictive to Joffrey for months.”

“ _Excuse me_ –” By the gods, Curufin’s volume had reached frankly terrifying heights. His shrieks might have shattered the the foundation of the castle’s rock if Caranthir hadn’t given him a sharp and highly visible jerk. Celegorm noticed how Caranthir’s fingers were white on Curufin’s shoulder, and other hand was wound into the fabric of his shirt. Curufin didn’t put up quite the fight to this that Celegorm would have expected; he actually settled again, far from passive but undeniably silent.

Robert seemed to consider the queen’s words with great weariness, almost exhaustion. Eventually he dragged a hand down his face and swept his eyes over the room. “Aye,” he finally grumbled, eliciting a shocked gasp form Curufin and a smug look from Joffrey. “It doesn’t matter! How are we to make heads or tails of this! He says one thing, she says another, and Curufin claims a more outlandish scandal!”

“They were not the only ones present.” Uncle Ned’s voice boomed, but was not raised. As always, when Eddard Stark spoke, people listened. Celegorm simply felt sick while watching his uncle’s face, and ashamed. He was supposed to have outgrown those hairpin triggers. “Sansa, come here. Tell us what happened.”

Dressed pristinely, like a beautiful little doll, Sansa stepped forward. There were tear-tracks down her face, and her fingers were wrinkling the material of her satin gown. She hesitated, her eyes flickering from her father to Arya to Joffrey to Curufin. She probably glanced at Curufin too long, because, like one of Thauron’s wargs, he sensed her weakness.

“Tell the truth,” Curufin snapped viciously, with blazing eyes, and Sansa shrunk a little. She was shaking all over, and Celegorm fought the urge to grab the poor girl up and just take her away. He also ignored the insidious worm in the back of his mind that said to strike Curvo in his inconsiderate mouth. Celegorm drew a shuddering breath.

Sansa made a small noise, as if she was swallowing a sob. But, with violently shaking fingers clasped in front her breast, she straightened her shoulders. She didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, and her gaze remained locked on a point between where the king and queen were seated. When she spoke, her voice was faint, but it never warbled.

“When Prince Joffrey and I rode to the river, we found Arya and the boy dueling each other with sticks. Then… the prince challenged the butcher’s boy, and he…The prince cut the boy some, with his sword.”

“Lying bitch!” Joffrey snapped, eyes wild and hands clenched.

“No!” the king bellowed back. His voice was only slightly softer when he continued. “Finish your story, girl.”

Sansa looked like she might collapsed. She was swaying. Celegorm inched closer still.

“After that, Arya hit Prince Joffrey with her stick, very badly. The… the prince then turned his sword towards Arya, and cut her stick in half. That was when Prince Curufin rode up, and he started yelling, but Prince Joffrey kept on waving his sword at Arya, and she _fell_ , and Prince Curufin dismounted and ran over, but then–” She took a deep shuddering breath, the first one since she started rambling. She was now almost wailing. “Then Nymeria came out of the woods and bit Prince Joffrey!”

Sansa finally fell into utter weeping, crying and hiccuping and making unseemly noises.

Celegorm shoved Vayon and Jory aside to gather her in his arms, which she accepted gratefully. Over her head, Celegorm met Uncle Ned’s eyes and he nodded. All the shouting erupted again, Curufin, the queen, Arya, the king, Joffrey, the surrounding Lannister soldiers. ‘Liar’, ‘bitch’, ‘slander’, ‘stupid’, echoed around them, and Sansa sobbed harder. Celegorm picked her up and turned her away, walking two steps to where Jon stood anxiously. Gently, Celegorm passed her over to her half-brother, who then went about quickly shepherding her from the hall. 

Celegorm turned back to the chaos with his heart in his throat. He fell back into the conversation in enough time for hear King Robert declare, “Ned, see that your daughter is disciplined! I will do the same with my son.”

Before anyone could reply– Curufin was already opening his mouth– the queen interjected. “What about the wolf?” she snapped. “I say, a hundred gold dragons to whoever brings me its skin.”

“Dammit, woman! The bloody thing’s gone, the man told you so! Unless you want to delay us longer looking for a direwolf.”

“There’s more of the vile creatures. I’ve seen them prowling around. Have Ser Ilyn handle them as recompense! I’ll not have such dangerous creatures around my children, look what one has already done to your son.”

The king sighed, a hot and deep gesture. His shoulders twitched, and Celegorm felt dread settle in his stomach. Baratheon opened his mouth, but Celegorm jumped forward faster. This couldn’t be spoken, that couldn’t _even be an option_.They couldn’t try to take Huan, because if they did, Celegorm would slaughter three members of the royal family before they could even blink. And that would ruin all of Caranthir’s plans, upset Curufin, and disappoint Maedhros.

“Your Majesty!” Celegorm all but shouted, as he stumbled forward to stand in the little circle of discord at the front of the hall. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure everyone could hear it. “Wait! I have a solution.” He didn’t pause to let anyone gather enough wits to question why a bastard knight dared speak when not spoken to first. “Please, if the queen’s worried about the direwolves, my squire and I will take all three and leave. We’ll go back to Winterfell, and travel at first light. The other wolves haven’t done anything wrong! They shouldn’t be punished for what they didn’t do. We’ll just take them back North, well away from Your Majesty’s children. Like banishment, instead of an execution! We’ll send them to the canine version of the Wall! So, _please_ , nothing drastic.”

For the first time, everyone paused for a hot second. Then, the king let out a long, relieved breath before Queen Cersei could voice the complaints that were already on her tongue. King Robert lumbered to his feet, and decreed, “There! The bastard knight has more sense than the rest of you combined. It’s settled. Take the blasted creatures away from here, and begone, and let this be the last I hear of the whole affair!”

Thus, with the authority that only a king can deliver, the matter was settled. People began filtering out of the hall, starting with King Robert. 

Celegorm went loose as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut, and he let out a deep breath. When he looked back up, it was to Caranthir and Curufin’s large, crestfallen eyes. Celegorm feel ill. _So soon_ , he’d just gotten those people who didn’t question his right to be in their family and he was losing them again, _so soon_. His brothers both looked much younger than they actually were as they met eyes, grief settling within all of them. Then, before anyone could notice the moment, Curufin and Caranthir hardened their spirits, the same way they had a million times. Celegorm watched Caranthir guide Curufin out of the hall, and felt like the lowest scum.

He only moved when Uncle Ned settled a hand on his shoulder, and pushed Celegorm along as well. As they exited the bustle to make their way back to the Starks’ main tent, Celegorm looked back at his uncle and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’ Uncle Ned nodded and squeezed his shoulder.

Arya, holding Uncle Ned’s other hand, halted them by digging her heels in, just outside the flap where Jon could be heard talking to Sansa in low tones. Celegorm was glad she seemed to be listening to him. They used to be rather close before Lady Stark and Septa Mordane insinuated it was unladylike for Sansa to associate with him.

“I ruined everything, didn’t I?” Arya whispered, and Celegorm and Ned traded a swift look, before the nephew ducked inside to give the father and daughter some privacy. Jon noticed him instantly from where he kneeled next to Sansa’s chair, and she followed his gaze to Celegorm. She burst into more tears when she saw him. 

“Jory says you’re going to take Lady! You can’t! It’s not fair, you can’t!”

Celegorm’s heart thudded in his chest, but he couldn’t find anything to say to that. He whined low in his throat, and turned on heel, desperate to escape this situation, but mostly motivated by the sudden realization that Lady, Ghost, and Huan were unaware of the danger. Celegorm would sleep with the hounds tonight, something he’d done on perhaps too many occasions over his two lives. But tonight it was warranted. No Lannister spy would sneak in to try and assassinate the direwolves while Celegorm still breathed.

Clustered between three hounds in a forest grove, he hardly slept at all, instead spending most of the already late night watching the stars. They were the same here as they were in Arda. What an incredibly random thing to be consistent, when everything else was such a mess.

Before the sun even peeked over the horizon, Celegorm was up and readying everything for their journey. He packed his already sparse effects, and shook Jon awake so that he could do the same. The boy took it in stride, not one word of complaining. He was no doubt informed of their departure, but Jon’s cooperation soothed Celegorm all the same.

Then, once the horses were readied and Jon was set to task, Celegorm went to go find his brothers. They were awake and waiting for him already. He cried. Moryo didn’t, but Caranthir was perhaps the most expressive brother of them all, and Celegorm could see how deep his sorrow and fear went. Curufin gripped his waist tighter than was advisable, but Celegorm didn’t mind. The littlest brother present let forth a rather impressive stream of curses and angry words, and he wiped at his eyes when he pulled back. Curufin’s parting words were, “Come back to us.”

Caranthir added, “Get your arse to King’s Landing on the fastest ship you can find.”

When Celegorm returned to where the horses were readied, the Starks were gathered around Lady, who was being embraced by Sansa. “And when I’m queen, the first thing I’ll do is bring you to King’s Landing. So behave, and do not despair,” Celegorm heard her say with a choked voice. Lady let out a mournful howl in response.

Fiercely, he hugged Arya, and he left a gentle kiss on Sansa’s forehead. Celegorm put his hands on both their shoulders, drawing the girls in close. “I know things are rough right now, but remember that you two will be all the other has down south. You need each other. Arya, you must be more considerate to your sister’s position before you act foolishly, and Sansa, you have to always stand with your sister. Your siblings are the fiercest and most steadfast allies you will ever have, never forget that.”

The somberness of the scene and the severity of his words must have sunk in a little, because neither girl pointed out that Celegorm Snow had no siblings. 

He ruffled both Sansa and Arya's hair, and stood back up straight. “And Sansa,” he declared, louder and with more cheer, “Don’t be afraid to put Curufin in his place when his mouth gets away from him. Give him a good sock, just to remind him of his manners.” Sansa gave a scandalized gasp, but Arya giggled. 

Celegorm turned to his uncle, who was pulling away from Jon. Cautiously, as it became his turn, Celegorm held out a hand to shake with Uncle Ned. He took Celegorm’s gesture, but used the grip to pull his nephew in close and touch their foreheads. Celegorm tensed at first, but quickly relaxed into the semi-embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. 

“Forgiven,” Uncle Ned replied. “And you are a member of this family, Celegorm. Don’t ever let anyone, even me, tell you differently.” Celegorm shuddered. “Here and now isn’t the place. But you were right the other day, about a few things.” Slowly, Ned reached into his pocket, and pulled out a sealed letter, which he pressed into Celegorm’s hand. “When you pass through the Neck, call upon the Reeds. Once you’re there, give this to Lord Howland. He’ll know what to do, but what happens next will be up to your discretion. For now.”

Celegorm opened his mouth, but closed it just as quickly after studying his uncle’s expression. Here _wasn’t_ the place. So, Celegorm just nodded, and carefully tucked the letter into his pack.

Then, Jon and Celegorm Snow mounted their steeds, and direwolves stood at attention. Ghost and Lady flanked the horses, and Huan took the point. Together, as dawn rose, they rode North, with only a few, fleeting glances back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the only instance where we'll see Jocelyn for a very long time. Unless I ever get that Feanor prequel finished. We'll see. 
> 
> So, after barely a month, the boys split up again. I am sorry, but the theme of this fic, unfortunately, is very much 'split up', hence the title. Much like the Starks in the proper story, the Feanorions are rather scattered and busy with their individual plots. At least we finally see something the boys' presence definitively changed!
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and please leave kudos and comments! Maglor is up next, but I have to ask, any thoughts on this chapter? Do you also agree that Celegorm's a hopeless mama's boy? Does Lady living actually change much? What's going to happen at the Wall now that Jon's a squire? (I promise I haven't forgotten like a lot of 'Jon doesn't join the Watch' fics)


	4. Maglor I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor's family is very hot-blooded, very divided, and in possession of random relatives who no one knows how they got there or where they are. Also, he's having a very bad time. What else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: My poetry is bad.
> 
> Hail to she_who_recs, the holy guardian of 'they're', 'their', and 'there', ensurer that their is always grammatical harmony– WAIT!

The Reach was false almost to the point of farce. Maglor adored it. The games, the grins, and the whispers made it so easy to just slip in and let the spectacle wash over him. Like a rush, the world beyond the stage fell away in the Reach. Consequences and responsibility and the endless march of time stopped mattering, and Maglor could smile in this inanity. The whole enterprise of their courtlife seemed to be excess! The food pouring in from the fertile fields fueled the feasts, and feasts inspired wine, and wine demanded music. There was a sparse beauty to Dorne, but the Reach reminded Maglor of Valinor.

Except so much wilder.

In Aman, the Noldor were always halted in their decadence by practicality. The Vanya were tempered by faith, and the Teleri sombered themselves often with the memory of their sundered kin. The Reach had none of this. Or, perhaps, more accurately, they had all of those elements, working in lesser degrees among all their people. These Men could not reach the heights of splendor the Elves created, but they forged something far more vivacious in compensation. 

Maglor was beloved by the courts of the Reach, so much so he could only laugh at the absurdity. They adored his geniality, his talent, his availability, and how he knew his place; which most Dornish bastards didn’t. Having accepted the full force of this celebrity, Maglor– son of the single most emotional Elf to have ever lived– could confidently say that Men just felt more deeply than Elves. And that emotion, combined with the proper music and generous helpings of wine, made them so very careless with their secrets.

When news that Eddard Stark was leaving the North to be the Hand of the King flew in, Maglor was sprawled over a chair drinking wine with Elwood Meadows. He was at Grassy Vale in order to worm out what interest Stannis Baratheon had in the Arryn twins, but most of what he found was the bottom of bottles. Elwood had nothing of note to disclose about Baratheon, except that Jon and Stannis had an ‘oh so lovely’ friendship. All the interesting information concerned the mother, as Lysa Arryn had fallen from grace. Elwood snickered that she’d lost her mind. Apparently the regent of the Vale had all but thrown Amras and Amrod at Stannis, eager to take her sickly child to the Eyrie and forget about them. “Renly,” Elwood whispered, “says she doesn’t even write. Probably a good thing the other Tully isn’t coming south. Imagine that disaster!”

Imagine indeed. Maedhros would like to hear about this, if he wasn’t already aware. But Renly apparently knew more, so Maglor wrote a quick letter to his brother about unsavory rumours, and made for Highgarden. Renly wasn’t there when Maglor arrived, unfortunately, but Loras was. Loras didn’t need wine to spill secrets, and with the Starks coming to King’s Landing, Maglor needed to meet with his benefactor anyway. So he settled into lunch at an inn in Highgarden and waited for his summons. He’d not even finished his eggs when his presence was requested.

The first time he was summoned by Olenna Tyrell was perhaps one of the most frightening moments of Maglor Sand’s life. Including the time little Loreza ‘adopted’ a scorpion, and put it in his bed. To be precise, though, it was the moment when he looked into the elderly lady’s eyes and knew he was not there to play for her that shook him to his core. “Your efforts are amateur,” she’d said, and Maglor felt sweat, even in the temperate Reach, trickle down his back. “Even thick-headed Loras figured you out. I do wonder what your uncle wants to know from the Merryweathers that Willas cannot tell him. Well! Sit boy, we have much to discuss.”

Maglor had sat.

After that day, Highgarden had become Maglor’s base of operations in the Reach. Under Olenna’s patronage as her favored minstrel, he was given board and work. He’d spent almost a year and a half straight in the Tyrells’ sole service, playing and being subjected to Lady Olenna’s tender instruction in turn. Spy and information broker were never roles Maglor envisioned for himself, but music could no longer be his sole weapon. Bards were more important in Arda, where song held deep and old power. In Westeros his tools of music were… fanciful, and less applicable. If Maglor desired to help his family as both his Sand sisters and Feanorion brothers did, he needed more skills. Subterfuge didn’t even prove hard to learn. Men didn’t speak in the same riddles as Elves; as both a poet and the son of a linguist and an orator, Maglor had studied the warfare of words extensively. This was just a new application.

Olenna and her generous grandchildren helped lessen the learning curve.

Tea with the Tyrells was always intriguing, and it always went the same way. Maglor would arrive, and bow extravagantly to whoever was present; today it was Olenna, Margaery, Willas, and Loras. Then, he’d sit in the corner of the room and play something that was requested, usually something like ‘My Lady Wife’ or ‘The Fair Maids of Summer’ to start. But somewhere between when everyone started to pick at the cakes more slowly and when the tea grew lukewarm, Lady Olenna would request one of Maglor’s original compositions.

Which one she picked dictated the nature of their coming discussion. ‘Behind the Girdle’ signified petty gossip; ‘The Ballad of the Brightest Star’ required the planning of their movements going forward; ‘The Last Mingling of Lights’ was gravity of the highest order. On this day, Lady Olenna turned her gaze to where Maglor was playing a frivolous tune inspired by Dorea throwing a rock a boy she liked, and held up a hand. “Stop,” she snapped. “Play something with some weight, please. Sing ‘The Broken Sword’.”

So Maglor took a deep breath and went about the task, trying not to be stiff. 

Change. _Are Jon Arryn and Stark really that important?_

No one in Dorne seemed to think so. But then again, all the problems of the rest of Westeros seemed far away and petty from Dorne. All troubles in the Reach usually felt like they were silly, gentle, and fixable with a little good will. Maglor liked that. He liked staying far away from King’s Landing and the massive game board Maedhros had to put himself on. Being a bastard and a servant with nothing to gain or lose had proven peaceful.

 _“Upon the plains of doom_  
When the free peoples hearts were clogged with gloom  
A mighty war took place  
And a great evil,  
The greater yet king did face.”

But to revel in that innanity had never been the hand Maglor was dealt. Even as a child, small and wishful, he’d known his was not a fate of someone with small stakes and gentle problems. Most bastards would have gone to Essos with their mother, and just played music for the rest of their lives. Maglor watched the planning of a war from behind curtains, and witnessed the ferocity of Oberyn Martell’s wrath. His family problems killed people.

 _“The king raised his arm once, they sang_  
"May I be your bane," it was spoken  
And then with a great and mighty clang  
The sword of the white house was broken.”

He killed people. Had in the last life and had in this one. Maglor could still feel the blood slipping down his artist’s fingers, and that eternal stickiness lingered as he plucked the strings. Jon Arryn was dead. Maglor hadn’t killed him, but every coincidence seemed to say that someone had. The thought sent a trill of panic through his chest. It numbed his fingers.

 _“The great king was thrown under heel_  
While all the screams of his people he did feel.  
He took up the shards once more.”

There were days when Maglor didn’t leave bed, as his limbs seized and he saw literal eons of nothingness before him. Those days grew more frequent when he went home, or spent too long in Highgarden, or saw Maedhros; frankly, the bad days came when he lingered anywhere. Once he lost his voice for a week after being asked to play ‘The Rains of Castamere’. Maglor remembered going to Father in silent failure, being comforted with words of hatred and revenge, and weeping. He cried because he couldn’t articulate why he was in pain or why Father’s attempts at reassurance only brought more sorrow.

He seemed to be teetering on the edge of that feeling almost constantly since his return from Essos.

 _“With a scrap of metal he thrust_  
And the king made his enemy wail.  
But both breathed their last with a mighty gust,  
And the great king and great evil's hearts did fail.”

Perhaps the death of Jon Arryn meant it was starting again– something that Maglor had always suspected would happen. He never believed Eru or the Valar or whatever placed their spirits in these lives meant to give them peace. The sons of Feanor had been forged into that which was beautiful and perfect, like all of their father’s works. Once, they were artists, characterized with how they painted with words or music or nature or their bodies; creators. Then Feanor melted them down and remade them, this time into the weaponry which so became his passion late in life. They had become very good at destroying things. It only made sense that they be used accordingly.

 _“So the line of lords is irrevocably bended._  
But it is said, someday will come a spring  
When the Broken Sword will be mended  
And once again will we praise our king.”

Their spirits survived and this was the punishment. Once more they would fight. Again they would kill, and be killed. Most likely they would pick sides and burn bridges, because the lords of Westeros were no more inclined to getting along than the Noldor were. Maglor’s only consolation was the self-assurance that he _would not be the last this time._ Never again.

“Praise our king,” Maglor whispered, one line more than he’d actually written into the song and half a moment after the music halted. But the Tyrells echoed, Loras even raising his teacup as, “praise our king,” was lifted away by the wind. Without being prompted, Maglor stood and walked to the table. He settled in the pre-set chair for him, and tried to shake the somberness from his shoulders. 

Maedhros had thought it funny that Maglor always got stage fright. “You’ve performed in front of kings your entire life!” Nelyo would laugh, and Macalaurë just shook his head. He couldn't ever quite explain how it wasn’t the actual performance that worried him. Once he strummed that first note, after that opening line was sung, the crowd wasn’t even there. Maglor became absorbed in the repetition of his routine, except he was also trying to give his art that much more emotion and power than before, and getting wrapped up in it. It was an immersive sensation. 

No, it was walking onto that stage that was difficult. At that point, Maglor was still… Maglor. His mind was swirling and his heart was beating and he was rife with anticipation. Once seated, though, Maglor was a conduit that need not worry about any number of things. Everything flowed just as it was supposed to because he didn’t have time to worry about what would happen otherwise. 

This was always how he felt going to the Tyrells. They were allies, yes, but just like the audience that could raise you up or destroy you, Maglor knew he was expendable to them. The moments in between their routine, when he stood outside the door waiting to be let in or that transition between pleasure and work, felt like the lull between sets. The anxiety creeped back in. But, with all the grace and practiced ease of a born and raised performer, Maglor reached for a cake, and opened his mouth.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, with nonchalance that was feigned, but growing more real by the word, “you have any idea about what Stannis Baratheon is up to?”

Margaery gave a dainty gasp, a small smile on her face. “Why, isn’t he simply fostering those two young boys? I think it’s sweet!”

Maglor raised an eyebrow at her, but had to fight a smile as she laughed in response. He liked Margaery, who was bright and clever. Her personality was fierce, her manners were well-cultivated, and her actions vivacious, but her spirit was never dominating or crushing. Margaery possessed an intrinsic kindness to her, and her humor was never wicked. If she made music, Maglor decided, it would be similar to, but not quite, the powerful thump that Arianne created to inspire all-encompassing frenzy and exhilaration. Margaery made a beat that lifted spirits more softly, a dance of grace rather than passion. She was the kind of girl Ravennië loved to teach.

Perhaps that was why she was his favorite Tyrell.

“It’s really not as interesting as I’d hoped,” Loras sighed dramatically, drawing Maglor’s attention. “Technically, Stannis was supposed to foster the youngest brother, the sick one. But after Arryn died, Lysa started packing up the Tower of the Hand, and she was out of King’s Landing in two days. Stannis fled at about the same time. Renly says he marched up to Lysa about little Robert, and they had a big row. Eventually they decided that the twins would go with Stannis. The Vale lords are up in arms.”

“I’d imagine,” said Maglor after taking a bite of his cake and putting it down. “The new Lord Arryn of the Vale is now on Dragonstone. How’s she getting away with it?”

“Lady Arryn,” Willas replied, coolly, “claims that as she would already be regent for her young son, it doesn’t matter that he’s being fostered. And that a son of Jon Arryn must be fostered by Stannis, because they made an agreement that should be honored. The twins cannot be separated, apparently, and the sickly one would instantly catch cold and die on Dragonstone. It’s all rather dramatic.”

Lady Olenna snorted, a distinctly unladylike gesture, and waved her hand. “So the Tully girl seeks to dispose her own son for power. Eventually the boy will grow up, and at least this way his mother can’t smother him in his sleep. Don’t gasp like a scandalized Septon, Sand! The woman is out of her mind, who can say what she might do? The important factor to consider is that Stannis Baratheon is currently molding the heir of the Vale to his liking. So, tell us, Maglor, what does that Tully you like so much have to say about this?”

Slowly, Maglor leaned back in his chair, and he rested his head on his palm. He considered the inquiry for a moment. Maedhros hadn’t written but once since his sister-husband passed, no doubt busy with matters at Riverrun firstly, and then travelling to King’s Landing. The singular letter Maglor had received was short, written in Quenya, and very matter of fact.

_Staying in King’s Landing. Inquiring with servants, trying to contact Stannis. The entire royal family and their entourage has gone north. Moryo wrote from Winterfell, he says that Turko intends to travel with them back south, and that he has a big dog named Huan. Things are moving faster now. Will write again with details when I have Ambarussa back, but I imagine we will converge in King’s Landing soon.  
-Nelyo_

They always signed their Elvish letters with ‘Nelyo’, ‘Kano’, ‘Moryo’, and didn’t use family seals, lest they be intercepted. Despite that cursory measure, Maedhros and Maglor had not seen much of a point to hiding their friendship. They did so in part because Maglor had been so indiscreet when younger and frightened and remembering everything all at once, but also because being associated with the heir to the Riverlands gave Maglor more contacts. Quite frankly though, the true reason was that they both just didn’t have the energy for that level of subterfuge. They were lonely.

Lying in his bed in Dorne in nine years ago, struggling with processing literal millennia of aching emptiness, Maglor had wanted nothing more than his older brother. So badly he desired to commandeer a ship and sail to Pyke, just so he could break the siege. _I’ve squandered my chance_ , Maglor had thought, _an Iron Islander is going to kill Nelyo and I’ll never see him again, and I hit him when all he wanted was to talk to me._

Of course, that didn’t come to pass. Maedhros returned from Pyke a hero, and he went on a tour of hospitality from Winterfell back to Riverrun, where he finally saw Maglor’s desperate and half-deranged letter. By then, Maglor had fled Sunspear, frightening his family half to death in the process. But he simply couldn’t lie around listening to the clamour of his sisters and cousins, not when his brothers were out there. His brothers… returned to him; whole, and tangible, and unbroken. 

Never before had Maglor cared about the lordlings of Westeros, but, when Maedhros found the letter, Maglor was scouring the Citadel’s records for any familiar names. Maedhros somehow tracked his little brother there, and he wrote back. Maglor received several pages, all about Maedhros’s life– Feanor Blackfyre’s tomb, trying to reconcile who he was, Celegorm– that cooled some of the fire in his chest.

It would be a good two years before Maglor actually physically spoke with Maedhros. Celegorm had been small at the time but already almost as angry and defensive as he was at the end, and he couldn’t handle larger society nor the prospect of remembering his past life. Maedhros elected to keep them in the Riverlands, far from anywhere Maglor could reasonably get. It was harsh but necessary measure. Their little brother came first in this instance, so Maglor compartmentalized all those dark things. He didn’t go home. He stayed in the Reach and played and drank and acquired secrets. He met Olenna Tyrell and became court musician for Highgarden. He learned, he assimilated, he and Maedhros wrote each other every other day. Then Maedhros and Celegorm attended the same tourney as Garlan, and Maglor had held his older brother longer and tighter than he had since his return from Angband. 

Celegorm– willfully ignorant, rash, stupid, wounded Celegorm– was dragged along every time they would arrange to meet. At least once a year they saw each other, and it was good. Being in Nelyo’s company always soothed something writhing in Maglor’s chest, at least for a time. The box he tried to keep shut opened too easily in his company. But Maglor couldn’t stay away from Maedhros, not when Caranthir and Curufin and the twins were completely out of his reach. Not when Celegorm– who Maglor actually got to watch go from tiny to massive this time, seeing as he’d been studying in Alqualondë the first time Tyelkormo hit a growth spurt– didn’t know him. 

They were each other’s one refuge, in a very lonely world.

Thus, Maglor and Maedhros were very open about their friendship, and it was desperately good for both of their mentalities. But it also meant Maglor sometimes crossed loyalties with the Tyrells. For now, he settled on the truth. He imagined they all wanted the same thing in this instance.

“Maedhros and Lord Tully see it as dereliction of duty that Amras isn’t in the Vale currently, nor has he formally taken up the seat. Maedhros is in King’s Landing, trying to see his nephews returned to his sister.”

“Fantastic!” Loras exclaimed loudly. “That means he’ll be there for whatever tourney Robert throws.”

“I don’t think Maedhros is going to be jousting while his nephews have been effectively taken hostage.” The irony of stolen twins was not lost on Maglor, but the phantom weight of Elros resting in his arms was not something he tried to think about. So Maglor quickly closed that line of thought, and curled his fingers into his braid so that he could cut at them with his fingernails without seeming obvious. 

Absently, thumb biting into his forefinger and listening to Loras proclaimed all the ways they would force Maedhros to participate in the theoretical tourney, Maglor wondered what his little brothers looked like with short hair. Maedhros Tully kept his past the shoulders, which was considered slightly odd, but not scandalous. Celegorm’s hair, on the less acceptable hand, was just as long as Maglor’s and any self-respecting Elf’s, but without the careful styling. Being a bastard came with certain perks like that. One’s odd fashion choices could be explained as having been conceived under bad circumstances. He doubted Ambarussa or the king’s kin were given the same leniency.

Eventually Margaery kicked Loras under the table, effectively silencing his fancies. Sweet smile still firmly in place, she folded her hands on the table and rested her chin on them. “Do you think,” she inquired over her brother’s moaning, “that Lord Stark will have anything to say about this? Or the king?”

Willas replied. “If Maedhros Tully takes his complaints to the king, I don’t doubt there will be some manner of uproar. Especially seeing as Stannis should be in King’s Landing to attend Small Council, and Robert is always looking for reasons to pick fights with his brother. The real question is if dragging Stannis back into throng will bring any schemes forward. And if Stark and Baratheon can figure out what is amiss if they are.”

“So now we come to the crux of the issue,” Maglor muttered, and they all turned to look at him. He lazily held up his free hand. “I’m afraid I don’t know much, just that Stannis and Arryn were involved in something shortly before he died. Something that made Arryn’s death suspiciously timed.”

The Tyrells traded looks. Maglor narrowed his eyes. “What?” he said.

“No,” Lady Olenna declared, sounding bored and bothered at the same time, “I’m afraid we are in much the same situation. Stannis is an insufferably tight-lipped man, and so was Arryn.”

“Renly doesn’t even know what he was planning. Just that it involved the queen.”

Maglor sucked in a deep breath past his teeth. “The queen?” It was hard sometimes to think of the king and queen as Curufin’s parents. It was even more troublesome when he could barely remember that they were his own family’s most vile enemies. Occasionally, the only thing he could think about was how Curvo, by all accounts, loved them with the same ferocity his little brother had poured into all his relationships.

Willas hummed, drawing Maglor’s gaze and meeting his eyes with unsettling calculation. This, Maglor had long ago decided, was the most upsetting difference between Men and Elves. Elves were not duplicitous. In fact, Maglor was sure he’d never met an Elf he thought truly capable of being wholly false or inherently prone to lying. Misdirecting, certainly, but they weren’t dishonest creatures by nature. Which was what made the scheming Tyrells so uncomfortable and reassuring at the same time: they were unlike anyone Maglor had ever known. 

“You know our family’s ambitions, Maglor,” Willas said, his youthful face shifting oddly around eyes that seemed older. The look didn’t sit as naturally on the faces of Men, but Willas’s aged wisdom was familiar all the same. Maglor might have found it odder that his father was friends with someone only two years Obara’s senior if he hadn’t once been an Elf. Age had long ago stopped mattering to him. Time slipped away from him like sand at odd moments. Maglor tried to ignore those instances when they came, and make them pass quickly when he couldn’t. 

“If Jon Arryn died for one of Cersei Lannister’s sins… Well, we aren’t going to simply ignore that.”

“No,” Maglor replied, sitting up and taking his fingers from his hair, “I don’t expect you to, and I don’t believe you when you say you aren’t sure what this sin is. But I have to ask if your ambitions go through the prince or the king.” _Weird, weird, don’t like thinking of Curvo or his father like that._

Margaery gave a wholly false sigh. “Prince Curufin is now betrothed. He’s not available for me,” she said mournfully, and Maglor didn’t even pay that lip service. But it did confirm who her potential intended was, and that sent a spike through Maglor’s chest. The Tyrells wanted the Iron Throne, but they wouldn’t settle for having it for only a few short decades. Even if Margaery was to marry the king, Curufin would still inherit the crown when old and drunken Robert died. _Curvo as king, oh, pray mercy._

So that just left one important question. What did they plan to do with the heirs?

Slowly, Maglor stood from his seat. “You’ve given me much to think on. Is there anything you’d like me to find or look for in the meantime?” He tried not to shudder at the four falsely pleasant smiles directed at him, and ignored how his own voice had gone faint. 

“Just one thing,” Lady Olenna said, leaning forward. “I’ve heard your father is on his way back from Essos right now, much like yourself. Such interesting friends. If anything comes of that, do please give us some warning. I would be most appreciative.”

His ability to speak seemed to have fled Maglor, so he simply gave a low and courteous bow in response. He studiously gathered his cloak and lyre, and his steps were measured and casual as he walked away. He didn’t stop once on his journey back to the inn where his belonging were. Maglor rode for Oldtown that night. 

It took him a fortnight just to make it to the shore, but in Maglor’s experience a ship was always faster. The two weeks he shaved off his journey back to Sunpear from the upper parts of the Reach were worth it, even if it meant his uncle always knew he was coming. Somehow. Father said Maglor’s knack for secrets came from Uncle Doran. He couldn’t think of any Elf that trait could come from, so Maglor agreed. 

He wasn’t quite sure where what-had-always-been-there ended and where his Martell inheritance began. His spirit had been forged from the mingling of Nerdanel’s and Feanor’s fëar, that he knew. But no one had ever denied that Maglor Sand inherited his father’s eyes, or claimed that his musical talent appeared out of nowhere. Maglor shared inconsequential similarities with his sisters the same as he did with his brothers; sweets preferences, morning habits, how they approached puzzles, so on and so forth. So, he was Oberyn Martell and Fyira from Myr’s son, there was no doubt about that. But somehow the core he received from different parents also translated perfectly to make him the child of these Men.

Maglor Sand was, he had concluded, made from the same stuff as Kanafinwë Macalaurë, just cast into a Man-shaped-mold this time and refined by different hands. The small physical similarities, so small you would never see if you weren't looking, between Atar, Amil, Mother, and Father were strange and intriguing; Amil and Father’s noses were shaped similarly. That proved to Maglor that their presence in Westeros had to be contrived, more so than even the lack of literal ‘everlasting darkness’. That phrase could mean a number of things. It could reference numerous aspects of Maglor’s situation and none of them at the same time. But the fact that each of his brothers were placed in an environment where they fit and could feasibly inherit traits from their second set of parents?

Well, that looked like a conductor’s deft hand to Maglor. 

As he stepped onto the docks of Sunspear, Maglor could feel dread curling in his stomach. Somehow, he could hear those individual pieces, which had been ringing since the day Feanor Blackfyre was born, reaching a deafening volume. They were about to crash together, Maglor’s reason told him, and create a staggering symphony. 

_‘We will converge in King’s Landing… Soon.’_

_I hope so, Nelyo. But I’m just not sure._

Maglor feared he hadn’t yet even hit the second verse of his own solo. But maybe that made sense. He’d always been trailing behind his brothers in the last life as well, not hitting the peak of his song until the rest were dead. Maglor shuddered. 

No, something else had to be delaying the crescendo. The pieces were still being set up. There was time yet to determine where this song would go. 

History wouldn’t repeat itself if Maglor had to duel the very Ainulindalë itself. 

_Not a tragedy this time. Not again. We don’t deserve that._

The sons of Feanor might have deserved their fate, but Maglor had met young Celegorm Snow. 

He didn’t deserve that.

Maglor arrived at the Martells’s keep in Sunspear to find chaos reigning. Servants ran to and fro, carrying furniture and pushing loaded carts. There was shouting, cursing, and echoing crashes. Saddled horses loitered in the courtyard, but there was not a Martell in sight. Maglor carefully weaved through their dance to get inside, and found clothes strewn around the parlour. Glancing in random rooms showed emptied bookcases and missing couches. None of his sisters or cousins were about. 

A debacle involving a wardrobe dissuaded him from trying to make his way to the inner courtyard, so Maglor resolved to find the one place he knew would be quiet and ordered. The library.

Since she was nine years-old, Sarella had possessed unquestionable proprietorship of the noble library of Sunspear. Though Maglor noted some of the shelves to be missing books when he peaked in, there was none of the frenzy here. Sitting at a table near the entrance was Sarella, resolutely on guard for anyone coming to disrupt her domain. 

When Maglor creaked the door open, her head jerked up, vicious glare and set jaw already firmly in place. But when he smiled and held out his arms, his little sister gave a warm cry and dashed across the room. He had to take a step back and brace himself against the force of her embrace, and the laugh Maglor gave through the strength of her grip was breathy. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. 

The benefit of having sisters, Maglor had long ago decided, was that threat of them growing taller than you was lessened. His natural Finwion height had transferred into this life, and let him easily stand above of most Men; Maedhros was virtually monstrous. Of the Sand Snakes, only Obara came close to Maglor’s height, and he still edged her out by half an inch. He was twenty when they realized he was the taller, and Obara had thrown a fit. She’d grabbed him around the neck and wrestled him to the ground, just to prove that, “You’re still my scrawny little brother.” Maglor, for the first time in months, had laughed; unforced, uninfluenced, unintentional. It was good.

“Missed you,” he muttered into Sarella’s hair. Oh, had he missed her, and Nym, Obara, Tyene and Arianne, Trystane and Quentyn, Father, Ellaria, Uncle Doran. He missed Elia, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza so much it physically ached on the days he realized they were growing up without him. It was like how he had married when Curvo was still little, and moved out before the twins were even born. Except this time he was married to his work. This time, instead of awkward family interactions and Ravennië’s distracting warmth keeping him away, it was the panic that pounded against his chest until had to flee.

Until he had to walk away from all that could hurt him, like the coward he was.

Maglor was pulled from his own mind by Sarella stepping out of his arms and taking that comforting connection with her. She didn’t go far, and her hands continued to grip his forearms as if she was afraid he would disappear if she let go. Sarella grinned at him, wide and toothy. “Then don’t leave,” she declared, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

So Maglor smiled gently back, and tried to pretend it was.

“In this family?” he asked, words coated in only slightly exasperated cheer. “Nonsense, there’s not a single one of us that can stay still. I don’t think our entire family has ever been in Dorne at one time. In fact, it looks like we’re planning on abandoning Sunspear all together?” Maglor raised an eyebrow.

Sarella pushed a breath out between her teeth, whole body tensing in annoyance as she pulled away. Frustration radiating from her every movement, she marched over to slam the library door shut with a bang! When she turned back around, Sarella was already glaring. “You. Will not. Believe the mess. This is only the aftermath! Everyone has been running around picking what they want to take or throw out or put in here, and it’s not just clothes! Furniture, tapestries, books. The entire house has been rearranged!”

Sarella, even very young, was never bothered by much. She did not cry at goodbyes, or mind large crowds or loud noises. While her sisters were flinging knives over dinner and Maglor hid under the table, Sarella kept up her reading without pause. Her one and only peeve was disorganization, and untidiness. She and Nym had probably fought more over carelessly discarded clothes than anything else.

Maglor watched her sulk and gave a low chuckle. He shifted his weight, and decided to cut her off before he was here all day. “Why are we evacuating?” he asked, voice still laughing, effectively halting her tirade.

In response, Sarella simply groaned and slunk over to the table she was previously occupying. Maglor took the seat across from her. “Uncle Doran has decided to take up permanent residence in the Water Gardens.”

Maglor gave a surprised hum.

“I know! Seems like the whole family is switching permanent residence. Trystane’s whole room has been moved and reconstructed exactly! And, of course, all the books Uncle wants have to be stored and transported, and let me tell you, hardly any of these ruffians understand how to handle ancient texts.”

“I can imagine. So is everyone going to the Water Gardens? Surely Sunspear can’t be abandoned, and I doubt Arianne would care for being so far away from the political action.”

“That’s why Father’s coming home, to be Uncle’s representative here. And it’s actually that our little ones are being moved here that’s caused half of this. You’re right about Arianne, though. Uncle Doran insists that she and Quentyn are both to come with him, something about training for ruling Dorne. She’s furious though. Especially about Quentyn.” 

He could imagine. Arianne had long held the suspicion that her father would prefer Quentyn to inherit the seat of Dorne, and Maglor… couldn’t say that she was paranoid. He certainly knew a thing or two about parental favoritism, he could spot the signs. Quentyn received too many lessons and tasks above his rank, and Uncle Doran spent far more time ‘in conference’ with him than with Arianne. He praised and listened to Quentyn, while at the same time scolding Arianne and even treating her like a foolish child at times. It didn’t surprise Maglor that Arianne was angry and jaded over this. He couldn’t even resent her for how she grew independent to the point of folly and even treason in response. 

Maglor, aged past petty rivalry and with the adult ability to look past just his own motivations, now knew Doran’s and Feanor’s partiality didn’t come from a place of cruelty nor was it even conscious. It was the just the folly of people, a simple matter of personality and unawareness. Maglor hadn’t always been so cool-headed and reasonable about the unfairness of it, though. Turning a blind eye as Carnistir and Tyelkormo locked Atarinkë in a cupboard wasn’t his finest moment. Still, it was at least an understandable blemish on his moral record; more so than others. Because, _Iluvatar in Ea_ , it had hurt to see all the validation you craved given to someone else. Even now, he could feel the phantom pain of it.

“I think the only reason she’s complied thus far is so that she and Tyene– Tyene’s moving too– so that they can break out and prove a point. Nym’s moved her stuff back here, though! And Obara’s home. I think she wants to start training Obella more.”

Maglor considered this, tapping his fingers against the table in an as-of-yet unfamiliar melody. “So, for first time in a long time, _most_ of the Sand Snakes are in the same house. All, eventually, as Tyene won’t be away long,” he finally declared, choosing to consider the implications of the Prince of Dorne changing residence later. _Hopefully this won’t be like the seven of us stuck together in Formenos_. Nothing ruined an emotionally close relationship like physical closeness.

Sarella, in return, raised an eyebrow. Maglor couldn’t say if she was surprised by his choice of comment or something else. “Are you staying long enough for that?” she asked. “I’m the only one here right now. Father isn’t even back yet, that’s why Uncle is still holed up in his study.”

That was good to know. Maglor would hate to have to ride out to the Water Gardens before Father docked. 

Maglor smiled back at his sister, expression falsely hesitant and chastised. He knew he was often gone longer than any other member of his family. His most recent detour to Essos had marked his second-longest time away from Dorne. It had been almost two years since he had physically spoken to Nym, and Tyene had sent him an irate letter when he chose to dock in Sharp Point for his Reach detour, instead of heading straight for Sunspear.

But there was work to be done, other siblings’ fates to monitor. At least, that’s what he told himself. As much as he enjoyed his new backstage position, being unseen didn’t actually ever stop the performance. Things were growing more concerning by the day, the pieces shifted by the hour, and Maglor couldn’t afford to be anywhere for too long. Not up until right now, that is.

“I’ll be here for at least a few months if things work out the way I want them to.”

Sarella arched her other eyebrow. She was always very good at playacting with him, trading false words and hidden phrases. 

Maglor watched as Sarella crossed her arms and huffed. Gently, she leaned forward onto the table and her arms, and regarded him with a pout. Maglor smiled pleasantly back. “And what, exactly, are you planning? Surely not more get-a-longs with the Tyrells?”

“Just one or two things that don’t matter yet.” More like eight different things, but that was semantics. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If you want to convince Uncle to do something, he’s not in the best mood for it. I’ve tried.”

“Trust me, I have something to smooth him over,” he said triumphantly, and instantly regretted it. Sarella shot up, affectation forgotten in an instant. 

“Ah!” Maglor cried, holding out his hands as if to ward off her coming verbal onslaught. “Ah, ah, ah, no. I can’t tell you. Never underestimate Uncle Doran’s ears, Sarella. This is not the kind of information to be casually heard second-hand.” _Or can spread past the two of us._

“Well now I’m even more curious,” she hissed. But she slumped back onto the table all the same. She understood as well as he did that Uncle Doran was the ultimate destroyer of half-baked schemes. All plans must be presented to him with the utmost care.

“Terribly sorry,” Maglor said, and he hoped his smile conveyed that he really was grieved. On more than one occasion, he had taken his plans and sensitive information to the Sand Snakes for advice and review. Sarella and Tyene were the best for finding flaws and sussing out details, while Nym and Obara helped him with actual action more often than not. In this instance, if he gave clever Sarella even a hint she would figure it out. And what he needed to tell Doran, the reason he went to Essos… That information was so volatile, Maglor wasn’t even sure if he was skilled enough to handle it. Uncle could act with discretion, with care and finesse.

His sister would take his suspicions straight to their father. 

“What exactly did he deny you?” Maglor asked instead of continuing down that path of thought. 

He watched Sarella narrow her eyes, and she propped her chin on her hand. “You know,” she whined, “I can keep secrets, too.”

“Do you really want to?”

“I want to now.”

“What if I can help you?”

Sarella shook her head, her face suddenly shifting from playful to serious. “No,” she muttered. “Talking to Uncle Doran… well I see now that if I want something I’m going to have to take it. By myself and for myself. I realized a long time ago that I’d outgrown the Water Gardens’s library, Maglor. But I think I’ve outgrown Sunspear too, like you, Obara, Nym, and Tyene did. I’ve never been a wanderer like Mam, but now’s the time for me to start striking out in unfamiliar places. Alone. And if I’m an adult, this is something I’m going to do myself. And I can do it! What’s the point of reading all these books if I can’t put what I’ve read to use?”

For a moment, he was struck dumb and his heartbeat seemed much louder. Sunspear slipped away and he sat in their Tirion library. Moyro looked at him with that same scared but determined face… Maglor blinked and the memory fell back into the antiquity where it belonged, and Sarella traced the table in Carnistir’s place. That ancient day had been after Carnistir’s first real fight with Atar, some blowout screaming match about one of Rumil’s interpretations of the Marring of Arda. It was also the first time Moryo refused to back down and admit that their father was right after a little bit of rebuttal. He was probably about the equivalent of Sarella’s age at the time.

_‘Why would he have me learn all these rhetorical techniques if he didn’t want me to use them?!’_

Maglor reached out and gently took Sarella’s free hand, drawing her eyes to him. Slowly, he ran his thumb over her tendons, and he gave a squeeze when she met his gaze. What he was trying to impart was solidarity. There was a reason, after all, why he stepped onto the stage every time, despite how hard it was. Maglor didn’t collect secrets just to hoard them, even if the fear of being found out always niggled in the back of his mind. 

“That is true wisdom,” Maglor said to his sister, even though what he wanted to tell her was ‘that’s how you best a dragon’. It was something the First Age elves used to say. He had no idea when the phrase fell out of fashion, likely when dragons became less common. But Maglor also couldn’t pinpoint when the dragons went extinct– _even though he had been there_ – so he drew his hand away.

Sarella grinned at him and all but beamed at his blessing. He tried not the make his returning smile patently false.

Their silence hung in the air for a minute, but not uncomfortably. Eventually, Sarella went about rustling through her papers, high stacks of them that were meticulously organized with different colors of string to bind them. Maglor, in order to keep his mind from wandering, went back to tapping out the tune that was buzzing in the back of his head. He briefly considered stealing a stray piece of parchment, but decided he would like to keep his hand.

After a small lull, Sarella let out an, “aha!” From beneath a precarious tower she deftly pulled out a bundle of parchment sheets tied together with a red string. She sent her brother a triumphant look, and waved the papers in his face. Maglor batted her away in response.

“I’ve got your present, by the way.”

Maglor’s face froze. With stiff movements he took the papers from her, and he suddenly felt a small spot on his chest begin to tingle. It was the phantom memory of the weight that used to rest there, but was gone. With an awkward smile, he went about flipping through the papers, but the enthusiasm with which he’d commissioned this project had long since turned sour.

Sarella, meticulous and organized, had carefully constructed a cover sheet for the research she’d compiled.

_The Life and Death of Ser Feanor Blackfyre_

In another world, she probably could have published the paper. But, at present, Sarella Sand’s research was only ever read by her older brother. For namedays he asked her not for jewelry, garments, or weapons as gifts, but rather he would name a topic for her to study. Then, Sarella would eagerly present Maglor with her findings, and he tried to pretend it made up for shutting the door on his younger brothers so many times. This particular paper was a belated nameday gift, as he’d turned twenty-four in January while in Essos without celebration.

Gently, he put the pamphlet back onto the table, taking care to cover the star on the front page with his hand. When he looked back up, it was to Sarella’s narrowed eyes. Before he could even open his mouth to try and distract or deter her, she was plowing on.

“Why this one?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Blackfyre. Why him. When I started asking around, it turned out you’ve already read almost everything on the subject anyway. And don’t think I don’t remember that necklace of yours just because you’re not wearing it anymore.”

No, he wasn’t, and his chest felt odd because of it. Maglor couldn’t articulate why he’d commissioned the necklace of his family’s sigil– nothing could explain the whim but nostalgia. Feanor had made each of his sons a pendant, and the cool metal on his breast had been the only constant from the beginning of his life until the end. He used to carry five dangling stars in his pocket from when he and Maedhros had peeled them off their brothers’ corpses.

Morgoth had stolen Nelyo’s in Angband. Maglor didn’t know if that was better or worse than if it had melted with the rest of his brother’s body.

Maglor had taken to wearing a facsimile of his Elven necklace while in Oldtown. He’d found his father’s signature seal in a Citadel book, and suddenly felt an emptiness Maglor Sand hadn’t remembered until that very moment. The blacksmith, not nearly skilled as his father or brother or nephew, hadn’t even blinked at the request. Feanor Blackfyre’s sigil wasn’t well remembered in the Seven Kingdoms, after all, and only one person had ever commented on it. But that one threat was enough to make almost everything come tumbling down, so Maglor had thrown the necklace into the ocean while on the boat to Tyrosh. 

Sarella’s stare was burning. It was a good thing Maglor already had a prepared answer, and it was even better that he had gotten so very good at lying. The falsehoods fell from his tongue like poetry now.

“I’m writing a song about him. I’ve been working on it for a while now actually, so please don’t laugh. It’s just one of those things where I’m inspired but I can’t find the words or subject matter. And I just thought, Sarella’s much better at this research stuff than I am! She can give me stories to work with! And I was right, I can tell by how thick these papers are. So, anything of note? Something I couldn’t find?”

Her face lit up, excitement and pride radiating. Maglor watched as his little sister shifted in her seat, pushing forward on the table and all but yanking the papers from his hands. She started flipping.

“You can’t tell Father, because he will kill me.”

“That’s not promising.” There was very, very little that inspired punishment from Oberyn, and Maglor had no desire to test those boundaries. He happened to like his father’s easy affection and conditionless proud smile, thank you very much. What he didn’t like was Father’s apoplectic temper; Oberyn had never directed that anger at his children before, and Maglor would like to keep it that way.

Sarella gave him a cheeky, secretive smile that made Maglor’s heart sink. “Don’t worry, I didn’t harm anything, and it’s all back in one piece. It’s our little secret.”

“Sarella.”

“I went through Aunt Elia’s letters.”

Maglor drew in a harsh breath. He sat back in his chair, and put a hand over his mouth. 

_Aunt Elia_ … For a woman Maglor had never met, her shadow had hung over his entire life. Their collective lives, honestly, and she was the one subject that was never to be breached with Father. Not even little Elia was allowed to ask after her namesake, and while the letters Father kept locked in his desk weren’t expressly forbidden material…

Maglor would never have had the gall to touch them. 

The memory of Elia Martell was sacred and unstable, and in that way she reminded Maglor of Miriel. Always acknowledged, never spoken of. To invoke her name was to call upon dark and awful magic. Her items were sacred relics, her wisdom infallible advice. Doran or Oberyn need only suggest their sister’s hypothetical opinion for one brother to have complete sway over the other. 

Maglor breathed out a painful sigh, and look at his sister with new fear. A part of him wanted to scold, reprimand her like the time Elrond found and read the letters Amras had written to his dead twin. _Just because you weren’t told not to doesn’t mean you didn’t know it was wrong. Be careful with the ghosts you disturb, be careful of the curses left on the items of the dead._

Elves were always odd about death. They had no concept of wills; all property was meant to be preserved for the return. Or it was left to rot, like some mortal monument to that which would never cease but never come back either. They’d always known they weren’t getting back to Valinor, nor would their comrades sail back across the sea to them. But a reborn elf’s possessions were just lost, not forsaken or given. To take up a fallen comrade's sword would be tantamount to stealing. Thus, it had become common to consider the dead’s items cursed, as if they carried some infection or dark will. One of his lieutenants had insinuated to Maglor once that carrying his brother’s necklaces on his person was bad luck.

He would bet that if he said something of that effect to Sarella now, her response would be similar to what his had been.

Nothing but a morbid shrug. 

So Maglor Sand swallowed the bad taste in his mouth and tried to not think like an Elf. He hid away that part of him that wanted to run to Father and tattle, too. Because he wanted to know. He needed to know.

“What did you find in them?” he whispered, as if Elia would hear him from beyond this world and punish him for his curiosity. Sarella obviously heard the horror in his voice, and she rolled her eyes like all of his siblings did at his caution, his concern. 

“Well, there wasn’t much, but what was there was a treasure trove. You’ve asked, you’ve read the stuff, you know what everyone says about Blackfyre. Stormy temper, quick tongue, the only person that could control Aerys.”

Maglor did know. That was all anyone seemed to remember about Feanor Blackfyre, and what little more could be gleaned from books– his parents, his part in the War of Ninepenny Kings, his sigil– was hardly personal. Maglor hadn't even been able to find an account of why the Mad King murdered him.

Not that Maglor couldn’t guess limitless possibilities. Atar had just been one of those people. Everyone he met, whether they loved or hated him, had wanted to kill him at least once. 

“But Aunt Elia seemed to actually know him, if only for a few months. I don’t think the man had any friends, or if he did they’re long gone. It’s almost like history forgot him, but I can’t begin to guess how with how Elia talks about him. He just… sounds like he demands attention.” Sarella paused, and Maglor held his breath for a second. She seemed devilishly pleased to have his enraptured attention.

“I copied the best parts into the pamphlet, but I suppose I could tell you… the most interesting stuff. There’s what you would expect, she goes on about how smart he was, though I thought it was funny that she mentioned him being funny. Everything else says Feanor was humorless, but who knows? The best thing is about Rhaegar and the royal family, though.”

“Rhaegar?”

“Aunt Elia says that he and Prince Rhaegar were very close. Like, when Rhaegar was supposed to take her on a walk, he would show up late and say it was because he was in conference with Ser Feanor. Or how many times the prince invited Feanor to dinner, or the books they exchanged, and a bunch of other things. She mentions the queen and Viserys, too. He was the only man allowed in Queen Rhaella’s chambers besides the king and princes, and Elia said once that he doted on the little prince. She never actually comes right out and says it but… One does wonder, given all the miscarriages, where Rhaella’s living children came from. How’s that for a song?”

There was a buzzing in Maglor’s ears like a bee lodged in his skull, and he didn’t even notice how the world went dark until the lights came back to him. He’d lost a second, and he was sitting all the way back in his chair, a cold sweat on his skin. Gently, Maglor’s mind probed what had upset him so in the first place, and then quickly stopped as the black started to creep around the edges of his vision again. 

Whatever conclusion Sarella or Elia had come to couldn’t be true. It didn’t matter if it was, because it couldn’t be true, because Maglor would not allow it to be true. He would die. Just the insinuation already placed one of Maglor’s feet in the ground, so, no. 

He couldn’t get his words to work, so it was fortuitous that Sarella was so absorbed in relating her research that she hadn’t noticed his moment.

“Apparently he never stood next the royal family, like he wasn’t even a Targaryen, but at all the dinners he _sat_ next to the queen. Oh! And he asked Elia to dance once, and that was the only time she ever saw him dance with any lady. I get the impression Elia was really sad about his death.”

Maglor’s breathing came back into rhythm in time for him to catch choke on air again. 

“She doesn’t say much else. I think she was worried someone was reading her mail by that point. But she says his very public death was, and I quote, ‘the most terrifying sight of my life’. I feel so bad for her. I can’t imagine how many times she had to see someone burned alive after that. All the letters were sad, quite frankly. I think I cried three times reading them,” she whispered. Maglor, feeling wet and ill himself, didn’t know how help. 

So he took his sister’s hand and whispered, “You know, you didn’t have to go to all that trouble for me.” _I’m starting to wish you didn’t._

At once, Sarella snapped up with furrowed eyes that were more characteristic of Obara than her. She took his soft grasp and gripped his finger tight in return. Her mouth was curled back and her shoulders heaved expressively. The strength of her love burned in her eyes, and Maglor could have cried. 

“I wanted to,” Sarella implored. “Don’t be stupid okay? You don’t let us help you with anything, and you’re always so quiet, but you’ve been worse. Did you think we didn’t notice? Obara was about ready to rally the Sand Snakes to steal a boat and sail to Myr just to kidnap you if you didn’t get home soon. I want to help, even if it’s to do something silly like this-”

“It’s not silly-”

“Oh, be quiet. Please. If you don’t want to talk about it, just let us help in the little ways. Don’t be stupid, Maggie.”

His throat had closed up, and the unexpected laugh he gave was watery. “Please stop calling me Maggie,” was all he could get out.

“Never.” 

The pair of them collapsed into laughter, both near tears. And they laughed, and held hands, and Maglor wanted to cry some more, for hours and hours, because he loved his sisters. His meddlesome, loud, brash, overbearing sisters, all eight of them. And he loved his brothers, his dysfunctional, emotional, genius, needy brothers.

His laughter grew just a little hysterical as the tears fell down his face, because a knock resounded through the library door and he knew Uncle Doran wanted him.

Maglor had a lot of secrets; some inane, others not. There was one on the tip of his tongue that he wanted to cast into the sea like his necklace and the Silmaril, but knew he couldn’t. He loved his family too much to do that, like he loved them too much to stay behind with Ravennië, even when every part of him had so desperately wanted to. 

Maglor choked back a sob, because he didn’t want to start a war where his brothers and sisters were on different sides.

He slowly composed himself as Sarella called for the messenger to come in, and the page relayed a message that Maglor didn’t hear. He was too busy wiping at his face and trying to swallow past his closed throat. There was a buzzing in his ears again, and he wished he was back in the Reach. Not Highgarden, with the Tyrells and their insinuations, but in the employ of some minor house where he could play and smile and forget about all those secrets he spent so much time gathering. 

He laid a kiss atop Sarella’s head, and whispered for her to keep the gift until he got back. Her look back was blatantly concerned, but he didn’t let that bother him as he walked off to his uncle’s office. Sarella was a scholar, a child of books like Carnistir. She was a warrior too, just like Caranthir, but Maglor could remember looking at the corpse of his little brother. There’d been no color in his face then, except for the blood from the arrow piercing his skull. 

It was too easy to imagine the arrow as one of Sarella’s, the ones with orange feathers tied to the end and foaming poison.

No, he couldn’t let this happen.

Maglor had some tools left, after all: his words, his voice. He’d gotten very good at making plans in Beleriand, especially while Nelyo was hanging from the side of a cliff. He was good enough to stop war from breaking out between the Feanorian and Nolofinwian camps then, he had to be good enough now.

His uncle’s doors were very imposing, all sandstone with their sun carved into them and bronze-handled. But while Maglor rocked back and forth and took a deep breath, he was able to knock easily enough. The panic had turned to courage, and it sharpened his senses and steadied his focus. 

Maglor had barely taken his knuckles from the stone when his uncle called, “Come in.”

The prince’s office was built in a half-circle, and what wall space wasn’t lined with books were windows. Most days, Doran’s study was flooded with light and the sound of birds in the distance, the plush chairs were occupied by at least one of his children or nieces, and it was generally very inviting. But today, the bookcases were all but emptied, the blinds were drawn tight, and the furniture was gone.

Only Doran’s desk and a rickety wooden chair in front of it remained. Uncle was seated in his chair behind the massive desk, fingers steepled and smile fond.

“Welcome home.”

Maglor had hung in the doorway too long, his eyes were too red, the sleep bruises too pronounced. His clothes were dirty, as he’d slept in them more nights than not since going to Essos, and Maglor was well aware that he was thinner. Doran’s sweeping eyes catalogued all of it, Maglor knew he did. He was positive his uncle was dying to ask a million questions, to forget the niceties and get down to business. But they were both too steeped in routine to do that. 

“It’s good to be back.”

Prince Doran knew that if his nephew didn’t plan to play a game, he would have simply stormed into his office instead of waiting for a summons. If Maglor wasn’t about to jump out his skin, if he didn’t need that practiced performance to cool his nerves, he wouldn’t have needed a nod of permission to sit down.

“You certainly delayed. And I know your father was hoping to see you in Essos.”

“It’s a big continent,” Maglor shrugged, sheepishly. “And I wasn’t in Pentos. It seemed like an extravagant detour.”

“Oh?” Maglor’s father could raise one eyebrow; it was very intimidating, and it was more effective at scolding than any words. Yet, when Uncle Doran raised both of his brows it wasn’t any less powerful. In fact, it felt patronizing, as if his uncle could reduce even the most prideful of lords to a child. “You went first to Myr, I suppose. And were you successful in your goal?”

Maglor swallowed. His fingers held his pants in a death grip. Though he’d had this conversation in his head a thousand times, he still didn’t know what to say. “That’s what I need to speak to about,” he finally settled on, voice faint. He hoped he didn’t lose his voice before this was over. “Because, yes, I was successful. But not for the goal I told you.” 

“I always suspected this had nothing to do with your mother, Maglor.”

Once, he probably would have flinched. Macalaurë, who always felt like a pretender and couldn’t stand people even insinuating that he wasn’t in complete control, would have flinched. Maglor Sand had trained that reaction out of himself; he was aware enough to have embraced the falsehood. His sisters and father might have believed he very suddenly had an interest in finding his long-gone mother, but not Doran. Uncle Doran knew that Maglor had declined searching for her years ago. He was there when Maglor had told Mellario that despite her kind offer to help, if his mother wanted to see him, she would show up on her own. 

“Naturally,” Maglor finally whispered, before looking up. He shrugged while meeting Doran’s seemingly endless gaze, and tried to make his voice stronger. “I’m not quite sure where to start honestly. I have… a series of important things to talk about.”

Doran hummed, and sat back in his seat. Maglor sniffed. 

“If it is so important, I wonder why you delayed at Grassy Vale.”

“That was for a friend.”

“Maedhros Tully.”

Maglor shrugged, feeling the banter loosen the tension in his arms. He brought them up to cross, and considered the reprimand in Doran’s voice. 

“Yes, for Maedhros, but honestly, I think the Arryn situation is still pretty important. At this rate, the Vale and Riverlands might declare war on Dragonstone.”

“That,” Doran stressed, “is not our concern.”

Maglor pushed a breath from between his teeth, and suddenly he knew how to start this conversation. He would make his request first, so that in the chaos to come his scheme didn’t get lost.

“I know. We don’t typically consider _anything_ outside of Dorne our concern.” Oh, there was a warning twist to Doran’s mouth. Maglor continued anyway. “But Uncle, don’t you think we’ve isolated ourselves for too long? If we don’t interact with them, it makes it easier for the Northerners to use or betray us.”

It was an old song and dance. Maglor had gone through this conversation with his father a million times. He’d been insinuating reopening diplomacy with King’s Landing to his uncle since he was nineteen.

“They have already betrayed us,” his uncle whispered, old pain wracking his voice, and Maglor might have been more sympathetic if it wasn’t his brothers on the line. He might back down if this hadn’t gotten old. If the situation wasn’t growing increasingly delicate.

Maglor grit his teeth. “No,” he said, forcefully drawing Doran’s shocked attention. He made sure Uncle was holding his eyes before continuing. “The _Targaryens_ betrayed us. Aerys and Rhaegar betrayed us. Tywin Lannister and Clegane,” he stressed, because Maglor could not bear to simply sneer _‘Lannisters’_ and include Caranthir and even Curufin in their fold, “are monsters. They betrayed our trust. But the Arryns, the Tullys, Starks, even the Baratheons… they were just trying to protect their families, the same as us.”

“I am perfectly aware of all of this. Quite frankly, I’m insulted, and I think,” Doran said quietly, with flashing eyes, “you have spent too much time among the Reach lords, nephew. We have never been the aggressor, and were we not accommodating after the rebellion? Do not tell me the circumstances that cost me much, don’t claim that my personal sacrifices for peace have not been enough.”

There she was, Elia, choking them with her bony, frigid hands. Her memory had been invoked like an incantation to silence Maglor, but he would not be quiet. His ghosts had already suffocated him once. Had not the memories of his brothers, his friends, his sons, kept taking piece by piece until there was not enough of Maglor’s spirit for his body to contain? He remembered being so utterly stripped of his agency that he could only lie upon the beach until high tide came in and drowned the body that was no longer him.

Maglor was too old to be be silenced anymore, by either man or ghost. Not when he knew _he was right._

Maedhros had swallowed _some_ of his pride, their collective pride honestly, for peace as well, but it hadn’t been enough. Paying lip service, surrendering jewelry, and lowering swords didn’t erase those resentments, and it hadn’t united the Noldor. They still followed two different kings. The reason Aegon the Conqueror had been able to unite what he could of Westeros was because he made sure the lords knew that there was only one real king. But Dorne never fell under that yoke; Maglor’s people were pacified into cooperation and they had never really felt beholden to the Iron Throne. Which was fine, until the threat of infighting came.

Then, the _true_ High King had rather seen that stray faction forsaken than integrate the most experienced and skilled fighters into their force. Maglor had long tried not to wonder if the War of Wrath would have been shorter if Finarfin and his masters had _just accepted their help_. Maglor could understand why they didn’t want to associate with Kinslayers, he knew why Father and Uncle Doran so despised the idea of even conversing with King Robert. Maglor felt the guilt still rattle in his chest, because he knew what it meant to not deserve that extended hand or benefit of the doubt or to even be called a ‘necessary evil’. 

But, by the Valar, something had to _give_. Lives weren’t worth pride.

“Uncle, please,” Maglor pleaded, shifting to lean over the desk and implore. “Uncle Doran, please, listen to me. Things are changing. Something’s coming, I know it is, and we don’t want to be alone.”

“We are not alone, Maglor.”

 _Oh Stranger. Do I want to know? No, but I need to. Do I want to know now? No, no. Later. Ask later. Fucking Seven! Father in Essos, Lady Olenna’s inquiry._ Maglor took a deep breath and tried to stop reciting expletives. He knew quite a lot after all, and in several languages; he could sit here all day and curse at his uncle, but unfortunately, while it would make him feel better, it wouldn’t accomplish very much.

“Well, more friends can never hurt,” he ground out. “I’m not talking about Robert or the Lannisters or even the Starks. Just… please, what about the prince? He’s never done anything wrong.” _Not yet._ “If Father can hate Mace but be friends with Willas, why can’t we try and get along with the _next_ king?”

Doran sighed after a long moment. He rubbed his hand along his temple, and suddenly looked very old. “Tell me whatever it is you’ve already planned.”

_That’s something._

“Invite Prince Curufin to visit Dorne.” Doran groaned. “I’m serious! Introduce him to Quentyn and Arianne, try… try to make friends. Show him the horses and the oranges and all the beautiful things we make. Lay on the charm. Make him see why Dorne is important, why the Iron Throne needs us.”

“And what makes you think the king, let alone the prince, would agree to such an arrangement? I’d imagine Baratheon would accuse us of conspiring to kill his heir, rather than see it as a sign of goodwill.”

Maglor felt something like triumph curl in his stomach. It was enough. This had to be enough. _Give me your word, please, give me your word to try._

“I promise,” Maglor breathed, “they’ll agree. No one can stop Prince Curufin from doing what he wants, and he’ll agree. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh?” Doran’s voice was growing less and less pleasant. “And did you come to know the prince in your King’s Landing stint?”

Maglor swallowed and fought the urge to bit his cheek. He wanted to scream, guilt and indignation swirling in his stomach in equal measure. “No,” he said, because it was the truth. He’d never even _seen_ Curufin, Caranthir, Amras, or Amrod. “I never got close to the Red Keep, Uncle. You know that.”

Doran steepled his fingers in front of his chest again, and regarded Maglor from his aged face. His uncle looked older than he had the last time Maglor saw him. Finally, at length, Doran muttered, “I do wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Maglor yelped indignantly, because he couldn’t falter, he couldn’t. But even though he was shocked, panic screamed in his mind: _he’s right, he’s right! I’m divided!_ He thought back to the beach, to the ships going up in flames, about the screaming. Amrod screaming; Amras, Maedhros, and Father all screaming at each other so shrilly and raggedly it grated on the ears. All of their accusations were about loyalty; loyalty and love. Those vile words had chilled Maglor to his very core, despite the inferno at his back. 

Maglor didn’t want to have that fight with his uncle. He didn’t want to choose. Choosing between Father and Findekano– as passive a choice as it had been– had ruined more of Maedhros than leaving Amil. He never forgave himself, even when Fingon gave him unasked-for absolution. Maedhros could not quite bear to take that love again, lest he betray it a second time. 

Maglor was already shaking when Doran spoke. “I wonder sometimes,” Uncle enunciated, each word cleverly devised to be as cutting as possible, “at your loyalty to this family.” It wasn’t really an accusation. More so, it sounded like Doran was trying to chastise his nephew, plant some doubt in Maglor’s mind. Maybe he wanted Maglor to come home, to stay; maybe Doran was to take more control over his actions, seeing as Maglor’s independence had led to largely personal schemes and very little in the way of family prosperity.

Naturally, the nephew heard all this. He understood his uncle’s intention, in a very logical way. But he’d never kept his emotions well controlled at the best of times, and though very little had actually changed, Maglor felt like he’d been standing on a precipice for months. Except, he’d been standing there his entire life and only just realized how close he was to falling, and all he needed to fall was for one person to breath a little too heavily and disturb the air.

Even the insinuation of a disturbance made more panic bubble in his veins.

“If my loyalty wasn’t to this family,” Maglor spat back to Doran’s calm words, arms coming down hard on the chair and half pushing him out of the seat, “I wouldn’t be here!”

The world went black for a second. Then he fell back.

Maglor breathed heavily from the chair, doubling over. He wasn’t well; no, not at all. He wanted to crawl to somewhere quiet and alone, he wanted to lie down for a very long time because there wasn’t any more strength in his bones. Even as he sat in his uncle’s dark office, the world seemed to smear and buzz uncomfortably, time slipping away from him. The words he’d just shouted felt ancient, as if he’d been holding on to them for a very long time. Maglor blinked, once to that beach, two and he standing in the ruins of Menegroth, but three was Formenos, and four even further back. 

He was jerked back to Dorne all at once, though, by his uncle’s cracked voice crying, “Maglor!”

The bard jerked up, but held still and silent as Doran’s eyes caught and held his gaze.

“Explanation. Now. Why were you in Essos, Maglor?” Uncle’s hard and lined face softened, but Maglor still felt like he was floating through endless nothingness. Just one more second, like sand on a beach. “ _Child_ … what has frightened you so?”

The past was far, far easier to control and understand than the present, so Maglor needed only to sigh before beginning his tale. That is, he told his uncle a slightly edited version of the events which led him to Essos and what happened thereafter. One that didn’t make quite so much mention of Feanor Blackfyre as the reality.

The truth went thusly:

It had been Renly who invited him to King’s Landing, almost a year ago. Maglor had accepted with barely a thought, already spinning plans about how he could get an audience with the royal family through Lord Baratheon. He had ended up staying in an inn near the Keep, spending a few days playing in different taverns or on the street. Renly claimed he would request the Dornish Bard’s performance at the feast for the Tourney being held at the time, where he could hopefully gain some important attention. He didn’t play that night. 

Maglor had watched the day’s games from a spot among a few of the more intrepid small folk. There was a wall on a high hill that overlooked the jousting field. While the view wasn’t great, it was unobstructed and not crowded, and Maglor had been quiet content to pay half of his attention to the actual Tourney while jotting down stray lines of poetry. Those people around, sell-swords or wily children or rugged sailors, had interesting conversations to be listened to, as well.

While he was going about his day, a man had sat down beside Maglor, too close. He appeared, at first, to be a stout and weathered old man dressed in the kind of clothes that might once have been fine leathers and clothes but were now little more than rags. He smelt badly, and Maglor was about to ask the man what his business was, when he spoke first.

“Do you know, boy, what that symbol you wear is?” 

And Maglor narrowed his eyes. His hand, which had spasmed at the inquiry, came up to toy with the necklace resting on his breast: an eight-pointed star crafted from iron with a piece of red glass imbedded in the middle. It wasn’t fine. Little more than a trinket, honestly, and no one had ever questioned it. Things of importance were well-crafted and rich. A bard who wore an unrecognizable sigil had probably just bought it off a peddler for ornamentation’s sake. 

“Why,” Maglor replied lightly, a small smile coming to his face, “someone’s sigil, I imagine, given your inquiry. But I’m afraid I must plead ignorance. All I know is that it is a star, and I quite like stars.”

“Oh? And are you from Starfall, Dornishman?”

“I am! You are very clever. Tell me, what is your name?”

“Sam. Haven’t had any other name in a long time, but I’ve been known as Salt Sam. And you, boy?”

“Maglor Sand.” Men who had done nothing wrong, after all, need not fear giving their names. Especially if they planned to be playing in front of the entire royal court soon.

“Mmm. So tell me, Sand, do you want to know what that symbol you wear means?”

“Please.” _Are there those who would still fight under Feanor’s flag? Or is it a symbol of death here?_

Salt Sam grunted, and shifted his surprisingly clear gaze to meet Maglor’s. “It was the sigil of Feanor Blackfyre, the man who should have been king.” 

Maglor had only tilted his head to regard Sam. He blinked and leaned backwards on his hands extravagantly.

“For someone so important sounding,” he declared, “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of him! But I don’t know my histories well. Now I feel somewhat bad for wearing his sigil.”

“No, you wouldn’t have heard of him. Only those that knew Feanor now remember, for he burned hot but did not shine brightly for all to see. Blackfyre was an appropriate name for him, though he shouldn’t have been called it. He wasn’t a bastard like you.”

“Important people are rarely bastards.”

“I suppose so. But if I were you, I wouldn’t worry too much, about your mother or your jewelry. Enjoy not having too much to lose. But I have to ask where you got such a necklace. Feanor’s star… it seems to have come into fashion.”

Maglor could hear the _thump, thump, thump,_ of his heart in his ears. Most people didn’t feel the need to ask after a bastard’s mother. It could be nothing. He could be calling Maglor’s mother a whore, he could be defending her honor. But most everyone he met asked whether he knew his father. Those trying to be nice told bastards that their obviously absent fathers didn’t matter. A lot of questions had been wrapped up in that statement. Maglor asked the most obvious in reply.

“Fashion?” 

“Aye! It’s the damnedest thing. I imagine there must be some leatherman or blacksmith making the star without knowing what it is. Just last year, I saw some Tully with it carved into his sword hilt. And there’s a knight who fights further north, who incorporated the star into his crest. I wonder where all three of you saw it.”

 _Thump, thump, thump._ Maglor had known about Celegorm’s sigil, he and Maedhros had traded looks behind their unwitting brother’s back as he drew it. He’d never taken a good, long look at Maedhros’s sword, though. Maglor suddenly felt very conspicuous. 

He’d shifted his eyes up and down ‘Sam’ again. Now, why would a drunkard know anything about hedge knight Celegorm Snow’s sigil, if the boy had never stepped foot in the Crownlands?

“So would you have known Feanor Blackfyre? If you remember him and his star.”

Sam gave a considering grunt. “Only a little. He was always stomping around, but didn’t talk much to those he didn’t already know. Tywin Lannister, Queen Rhaella, Jon Connington. I doubt Connington ever wears Blackfyre’s sigil, though, unlike you.”

“I don’t know who Connington is,” Maglor replied flippantly, which wasn’t really true. He knew he was dead, and that Father had respected him. “So I really couldn’t say.”

Salt Sam regarded Maglor for a moment more, before lumbering to his feet. “Maybe,” he said, his voice changing some, “if you wear that sigil you should. If there are followers of Feanor yet, you should know that Connington has something precious of his.” Maglor could not look at the man’s face, as it was obscured by the sun, but as Sam walked away he seemed less unsteady than he did sitting down.

Maglor was on the boat for Essos that night. He wrote two letters before his departure, one to Father and one to Maedhros. He told neither the truth about his motivations, mostly because he couldn’t guess at his own reasons. He had not known what the Spider wanted him to find with a dead man in Essos. He did not know what of Feanor Blackfyre’s Connington could have had. 

From Tyrosh, Maglor went after the Golden Company, then he found his was to Lys looking for Connington. For a while, nothing turned up and there seemed to be nothing among Connington’s possessions that was particularly odd. Maglor went to Pentos to track down the spider’s nest, eventually, just for something to do. That lead proved more intriguing. 

Master Illyrio was a very wily man, but a generous helping of Dornish wine and few sad songs about Robert’s Rebellion, specifically the Battle of the Bells, loosened his tongue innocuously. At least, innocuous until one realized Illyrio had no reason to know “stupidly honorable” Jon Connington. Maglor went through Mopatis’s trade records and found a strangely worthless little fishmonger he invested in. It was just odd enough to not fit with the rest of Mopatis’s business schemes, but so mundane it would be overlooked if one wasn’t looking. 

That was when he found his way back to his mother’s city, Myr. Maglor could understand why she left, but also why someone would want to hide there. There were many slaves, few freeman, and a lot of slaves pretending to be freemen. Upon finding that the fish shop was not run by the owners, Maglor made his way to a small house outside the city limits but along the coast.

There, he met a young blue-haired boy named Griff– a name which pleased Maglor– who said his father was away for business in Pentos– news that did not. Maglor had considered screaming in that moment, but chose to make friends instead, as ‘Kano Sand’.

In the following month, while waiting for the man he suspected to be Connington, Maglor spent a fair amount of time playing for money in Myr proper. He was able to lodge with the generous younger Griff, though, which proved kind to his wallet. The boy had recognized Maglor as Dornish, something not everyone could distinguish from being Myrish, and was eager to ask questions. He wanted to know about the pole boats that sailed down the rivers, he asked about the Water Gardens where the Martells let common and noble children alike play, and he whispered his questions about the people and their songs. In between answering all this, Maglor watched Griff’s face, noticing his easy tan and how his jaw was wider than you saw in Tyrosh or Myr. Maglor studied the shape of Griff’s eyes, and realized they were the same as Father’s. 

Eventually, Griff’s roots grew out and Maglor felt sick.

He spent three more months in Essos. He met Jon ‘Griff’ Connington. He found out more about Magister Illyrio and his business with the Spider, years and years ago. He used his time in the Griffs’ house to sneak around and found a bundle of vague letters that could mean exactly what Maglor thought they did. In all of it… Maglor had forgotten to ask about Feanor. 

At length, with the looming knowledge that his father was in Pentos and would demand he visit eventually, Maglor went back to Westeros. He sailed to Sharp Point and drank alone in an inn. He heard a few whispers about the Arryn twins and decided to follow that lead just to have something to do. The knowledge gnawed at him the entire time. He knew he had to go home, but he didn’t know what to say when he did. He had to return to Dorne eventually, though.

“And now I’m here,” Maglor concluded faintly, knowing he could no longer turn back. “Uncle… from all that I have been able to find, from every avenue I have explored, all the duplicity I reviewed… Uncle, I think Elia’s Aegon truly lives.”

Doran had sat stiff and silent in his chair throughout Maglor’s tale. Not once did he interrupt, or question, or even shift his face. He remained as he was for several agonizing seconds, before bending at the waist over his knees and placing his head in his hands. At length, Doran let out an audible breath, half word and half meaningless sound, but wholly agonized.

“Aegon."

He paused a little while longer, before straightening up and resting his head in his palm. Maglor watched as the mechanics of Doran’s mind forcefully wrent themselves back together. With each passing second, his eyes grew brighter and more calculating.

“Aegon lives.”

Maglor had nothing to say to that.

Doran began muttering, but his words became louder with each second. “Everything has changed. Firstly, this has to be verified. Connington, if that is who he is, will need to be questioned. Then comes the matter of Viserys.”

Maglor felt a chill run down his back. He’d known things would spiral from here, but he desperately needed to take some control of the situation. There was no going back to talking about Curufin, obviously, but there was no need to bring the Beggar Prince into the situation yet. He could not quite get the words out though, the ones he needed to pull the conversation back towards him. All he could whisper was, “Uncle.” Doran kept going without paying Maglor any heed.

“It’s too dangerous yet to bring him home, but events might move faster now. Dorne would rally for one of their own, and the Reach can be convinced, but what of others… perhaps the delicate situation in the Vale...”

_Not Ambarussa, leave them alone._

“Ai, Oberyn’s entire trip has been rendered pointless. But this is better… so much better than that brat. Oberyn must know at once! He’s almost back but if the raven gets to him first, he’ll turn the ship around, I don’t–”

“No!” Maglor cried all at once, finding his voice in his horror. Doran’s eyes went wide as he stared at his nephew. “We can’t tell Father this,” Maglor panted, “not under any circumstances. Not yet.”

“Why not?” Doran asked, his voice more incredulous than angry. The idea of not telling his brother that the nephew he had mourned for fourteen years was alive was ludicrous to him. It was ludicrous to almost every one of Maglor’s instincts too. Everything in him told him to fly to his father, throw himself in Oberyn’s arms, and proclaim their family’s new joy. The pain would not be erased, but it was one less ghost to choke them all the same.

But the part of Maglor that flinched at every flame was stronger, and it made him shake. “Why not?” he hissed at Doran, the relative he had hoped– still hoped– could be reasonable. “You know why not! He’s wild and rash and will rush this development to its ultimate extreme!”

“This is family!” Doran yelled back. Maglor had never heard him raise his voice before. But he’d grown up shouting at far more intimidating people than the Prince of Dorne.

“Family doesn’t mean he can’t still be a fool!” 

Maglor slammed his fist onto the desk, just to make a point. Doran did not like that at all.

“Do not,” he stressed, “disrespect your father, Maglor!”

“I do my father no disrespect!” Maglor screamed back, volume hitting new heights as he rose from his chair and slapped his palms onto the desk. The wood vibrated, jostling an ink pot into rolling off. It smashed into several pieces. 

For several seconds, he and Doran simply stared at one another, their breathing the only break in the air. Then Maglor sat back down. He closed his eyes for a brief instant, and then continued. 

“I _love_ my father. I try to honor my father and protect my family with every breath I take. But part of honoring him is acknowledging when he is wrong, because all men… all people have folly. He is consumed by his grief in this, Uncle, so much so that through his rage he can’t see how his revenge may endanger what he still has. And don’t look at me that way! I know his love is fierce and true, and I return that love, all his children do. But letting him walk down this path without resistance or intervention or _anything_ … that’s tantamount to murder, Uncle. I shall not stand by and watch while my father drives himself to his death and throws what he has left to live for into war and ruin. I won’t be complicit in that. I won’t.” 

His voice broke on the last sentence. Maglor was suddenly overcome with the knowledge that he had no more words to say, and that if he tried to speak, no sounds would come. He was truly pathetic. He could not even put all he had into the one thing he’d resolved to do with this life.

Like a puppet with cut strings, Maglor collapsed back into his seat. He squeezed his eyes shut, and laid his hand across them to try and stop the tears. It didn’t quite work, but it stemmed the worst of any theatrics. 

Maglor could not say how long he and his uncle sat in silence, nor begin to guess at what Doran was thinking. Eventually though, Maglor was roused from his thoughtless despair by Doran’s commanding voice.

“Nephew.”

And Maglor looked up. Doran looked almost wizened, and so very pained. The sight almost sent him to crying again.

“Nephew, come here,” Doran said, beckoning Maglor around the desk. “Sit by me.” 

Maglor stood, and went to kneel next to his uncle’s chair as he was ordered. Once he settled, he looked up, almost like a Speton of the Faith. Gently, Uncle Doran placed his disfigured hand upon Maglor’s head, and ran his swollen fingers through his nephew’s hair. Doran cupped Maglor’s face, and gazed at him like a man beholding a pitiful creature. It was how Eonwë had looked at them, and Maglor did not like that realization at all.

“You are a grown man,” Doran whispered, like a realization. “Skilled and clever and you look like your father. But you are far more gentle than he; our bard, our sharpened artist. You alone are the child who remembers the rebellion.” It was more a question than a statement. It exposed the awful truth that– while everyone was aware that Maglor had technically lived in Sunspear during the rebellion– no one had really understood that he was among them. No one had glanced at him as he hid behind the very curtains in this office, listening to scary conversations. No one had come when he wailed at night as the dreams became too vivid. Not once did anyone realize that Maglor had heard all the gory details of the war which ruined his family, even if he had not seen them.

How could they know that just those hints were enough to spark a memory that left vivid illustrations of the possibilities in this mind? They could not, and he could not tell them, though it hurt so badly to keep it hidden.

So Maglor simply nodded, to confirm what his uncle had just realized. Doran placed a kiss atop Maglor’s head.

“I am sorry. And I’m sorry to have frightened you even now. I will not tell you, child, that war will not come, because you have proved you deserve more than that. But I will say that you are right, and it need not. And we need not make enemies of children. I will act on your suggestion, and write to King’s Landing requesting that Prince Curufin visit Dorne. If the boy is amendable, his friendship could be invaluable. You are wise, Maglor. I fear now that you are wiser than your father, and certainly far beyond your years.”

It was a compliment. But as Maglor rested his head against Uncle Doran’s knee and let him run his fingers over his head, it did not feel like one. No… he could not stop the rising crescendo, could he? 

Maglor could only be grateful for small blessings. His sisters, Curufin, and perhaps even Caranthir would be in Sunspear soon, and that was an area he could protect. He would watch after them, and Maedhros could handle the twins and Celegorm, like he always had. It was a very short-term solution.

At the very least, though, Maglor now had a chance to try and reconcile the two halves of his family. That, for now, would have to be enough.

He just hoped that he was wrong about Aegon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of people have been wanting to know more about Feanor, so have this as a consolation for this being later than usual (*awkward jazz hands* I had papers friends, I am sorry). I've decided Feanor's going to be rather shrouded in mystery for a while, at least until [REDACTED], and that's totally for narrative reasons, and not because I'm putting off finishing 'Spirit of Blackfyre'. 
> 
> Anyway, Maglor is struggling with this whole 'having to be alive again' thing, Doran schemes, and I really like Sarella. I hope she gets a really big role in the Citadel stuff and reunites with her sisters in the books. I also love the Tyrells, they'll be back, glorious as ever.
> 
> But what did you all think? I can imagine what the big question is! So, any theories? Conspiracies? How many more daddy issues can I fit in this fic? You tell me. Next time, we head to King's Landing with Maedhros, where talk turns to twins and tourneys. Thank you so much for reading, and please leaves comments or kudos if you are so inclined!


	5. Maedhros I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is a man in high demand, and he's got a lot of work to do. He's fine with that. Really. It means he doesn't have to think about the other him too hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remembering you're, your, and the evil 'youre ', we show gratitude to she_who_recs for plowing through these massive chapters and finding the evil seed among the crop this Holiday season.

_… furthermore, I’ll not be subject to any more of your accusations or insults. You question my honor as both a mother and a lady, and I’ll respond to such grave cruelty from my brother no more._  
_Sincerely,_  
_Lady Lysa Arryn of the Eyrie_

There was something especially awful about seeing the downfall of a person you had known as a child. It ripped apart what little might remain of childhood idealization; it cast a harsh shadow over fond memories. It made the world feel just a little darker.

Of course, Maedhros knew that there was great folly in the childhood memories. Children were shielded from the darkness all around them, thus they didn’t remember the bad parts when they were grown and given an unobstructed view. It wasn’t that times had been better; it was just that Lysa and Maedhros hadn’t been shown much to despair about in Riverrun. The death of Minisa Tully, yes, but over all… The world had not been so thoroughly cruel to Lysa at that point. She hadn’t been made to snap and break and wander down a path with sweet promises but no reward. But the reality had never been that there weren’t cruel things waiting to swallow her whole. It had just taken a few decades for them to find her.

Maedhros set down her most recent letter with a sigh. They had become increasingly incoherent and defensive as her anger and his frustration grew. This one was little more than a written form of the time she had screamed at Catelyn to stay away from her room and mind her own business. Never mind that Lysa had been hiding Petyr under her bed at the time. Never mind that in the present she had effectively sold her children. 

He didn’t know what Lysa had gotten in return for Amrod and Amras, besides peace of mind, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

On the bottom of a large pile of letters was the crinkled one from Maglor that he had opened and read four times. Maedhros reached for it again, and considered writing back and putting Maglor to sussing the mystery price out. But… he didn’t want to know. Besides, the situation was swiftly pushing towards Maedhros having to go to Dragonstone himself, so he would find out eventually. For now, he grabbed his inkpot and a piece of parchment, and set to writing Stannis Baratheon another perfunctory letter. 

Maedhros wasn’t even sure they were getting to Dragonstone.

The same banal, polite yet firm words penned again, Maedhros addressed the letter and put it next his others. One to Riverrun, one to Winterfell, a letter to Darry asking for the coming crop estimates, an effusive congratulations to the Twins where he also apologized for his absence from the wedding, and a pre-written note to the Tower of the Hand, requesting dinner with his goodbrother and nieces. There was also a slip of paper covered in Tengwar that would be given to a servant to deliver to Caranthir’s chambers. It was another invite to dinner, this one in a pub rather than any fine hall. Maedhros wanted to see at least one of his brothers while in King’s Landing.

Currently, he was staying in an inn, something that would appall and offend his lord father. _A son of mine, denied hospitality?_ Maedhros could hear Hoster say, _Have we not friends in King’s Landing? Can none extend a room, none can host the next Lord of Riverrun?_

But Maedhros had not called on any of the many who would have lodged him, especially not the king. Being a guest came with certain expectations, certain manners, certain rites. He would be expected to dine each night, and have to tell his hosts what he was doing and where. Maedhros could not have spent an afternoon sulking in his room if he was to stay in someone’s else home. The inn provided him with a certain level of independence and privacy. So, Maedhros avoided all trouble and just didn’t tell his lord father were he was staying.

Maedhros just didn’t have the energy to spend on people right now. It had been an empty and exhausting day; but the ones where you do nothing are always the most tiring.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Maedhros returned to his letters. He opened one from Lord Deddings, subtly reminding him that his daughter was sixteen now, but not saying much else. There was another note from Bracken, once again expressing his neverending displeasure with some perceived slight from Blackwood. Nayland, who worded his request in as careful a manner as possible, would like Maedhros to see that some Frey boy stop pursuing his young daughter.

He wrote out his responses, business as usual, and longed for some fresh air.

Then Maedhros reread his letter from the Blackfish. The Eyrie was quietly boiling, he claimed, and the Vale lords were furious about their absent leige lord. Brynden reiterated the same thing that Maedhros had been hearing for months now, that Lysa was immovable and unreasonable. _Only your father could command her to sense, I imagine._

But Hoster Tully didn’t have the mental faculties at present to reason with anyone. 

Already, Maedhros had written to Brynden, claiming he would handle the situation and there was no need to involve his lord father. _Please, just continue to watch after Lysa faithfully. It eases my heart._

As it had eased his heart to know that, in Himlad, Celegorm tirelessly cared for Curufin and Celebrimbor after Aikanaris’s death. 

Well, at least Celebrimbor had returned from Himlad healthy of heart. Healthy enough, at least. Though Maedhros didn’t think the Blackfish was quite so vulnerable or changeable as either of his brothers, he was worried for young Robert. Brynden could only be a good influence on him. 

Celegorm… He would not come to King’s Landing, despite what Caranthir seemed to think. Or, Celegorm Snow would not. Maedhros could not begin to guess at Tyelkormo’s actions would be, he had no prior schematic to draw from. Russandol had never been able to pin down his second brother. 

Perhaps, though, he could write to Celegorm and request that he go to the Vale while Maedhros dealt with Dragonstone. Celegorm was very good with children, and he was well-liked and well-remembered in the Vale, having been knighted by Jon Arryn. He might be able to make some headway with Robert, and he could stay with and support Ambarussa when they returned to the land they must rule. 

That would be good. And it kept him well away from King’s Landing, the Lannisters, and Curufin.

Maedhros went to pull another sheet of clean parchment, and found that he had used them all up already. He blinked, and sat back.

For the first time in hours, Maedhros emerged from his bleak concentration on his tasks, and papers, and ink. He clearly saw the previously unnoticed mess of the desk. Ink dotted the wood and it splattered over ripped-open envelopes. His wax, which still sat heated above a candle, bubbled and spilled down the side, but his seal was nowhere in sight. He’d probably knocked it to the floor or buried under the truly unreasonable amount of loose parchment. There were three different quills scattered and leaking on the desk, and the only clean part was his neatly stacked unsent letters. 

Well. Maedhros huffed a small laugh, and shook his head at himself. He looked at his fingers and found them stained, so he went to wash them in the basin next to the bed. Then, he started organizing his letters and blew out the candle, trying to at least save some of the wax. He found his seal amid Lord Bracken’s five page tirade. Maedhros grabbed a cloth and tried to wipe away the worst of the ink from the wood, but unfortunately the desk would stain. After staring at the blots for a few moments, Maedhros decided he to leave some extra coin with the innkeeper for the damage.

Then, parchment sorted and mess cleaned, Maedhros donned his cloak and grabbed his finished letters. He would go buy more parchment and post his letters at the same time. After that… perhaps he would eat supper and get some sleep. He could write Celegorm in the morning. 

Walking down the creaking wooden steps of the inn, Maedhros mused that he should probably send a reply to Maglor, as well. Yesterday, he’d received a remarkably bland letter from Dorne, awkwardly telling of some scheme to get Curvo south and how Maglor would be all but detained in Sunspear for the time being. Through uncharacteristically dry and stilted words, Maglor tried to hint at something happening across the sea. Oberyn Martell had just returned from Essos. For some ill-defined reason, this was different from all the other times Oberyn went to the Free Cities. Maedhros didn’t like the sound of that, not least of all because something had upset Maglor.

Chewing on that thought, Maedhros made his way through the inns lower hall distractedly. He did not collide with anyone, but it took two calls to grab his attention, and he didn’t even recognize the voice until he turned. 

“Mae!”

There was only one person who still called him ‘Mae’. Across the crowded room, next to the innkeeper, stood Littlefinger. 

Carefully, Maedhros schooled his features pleasantly, trying to make his surprise look more excited than it was. It was not that he was necessarily opposed to seeing Petyr, but he had been trying to avoid exactly this reunion. Every interaction with Petyr was… complicated.

Once, he had been a brother, as near to Maedhros’s heart as Edmure. Or, he was at least close enough. But Lysa… Maedhros had only learned of the affair two years ago. 

Amras was the one who brought it to Maedhros’s attention, when he slyly mentioned how close Lysa was to Baelish, both emotionally and, at times, physically. Once the seed had been planted in Maedhros’s mind, he saw the signs everywhere. So, concerned and upset, he’d confronted Lysa. That was when the whole torrid thing came out; Petyr taking her maidenhood, the child, the moontea. 

“I love him, I love him!” she’d cried, “And he loves me, Maedhros. Please, don’t take him from me. Not like Father did!” 

And Maedhros didn’t. How could he? When his heart was nearly beating out of his chest and the only instinct left was to wrap Lysa in his arms and cry for her, how could he hurt her more? Horrified near tears, Maedhros had sworn not to tell on the condition that she stop seeing Petyr. Then he left the whole sordid thing alone, choosing instead to focus on situations he could fix without so much mess, so much fallout. 

Maedhros had his suspicions that the affair between them persisted, though. And again… he left it be. The relationship was something he could not condone, but not deny Lysa or shame her with either. So he did nothing, wallowing in that knowledge. 

The knowledge made spending time with his childhood companions beyond painful.

The true damage of knowing something hidden though, Maedhros mused, isn’t what comes after. It’s how much darker all your memories seemed in retrospect.

Maedhros could not accurately guess how much Petyr had known back then or how insincere his actions and words to Lysa were; but he would bet that the extent was less than strictly honorable. And that behaviour— dishonesty, flippancy, irresponsibility— had obviously persisted. 

No one spoke well of Petyr Baelish. They were complimentary, there tended to be grudging respect or acknowledgement of skill. But not well. Maglor, without any knowledge of how Maedhros knew Baelish, scoffed at the Master of Coin’s name. The vitriol that came from Maglor was honestly astounding, and largely unprompted. He had hissed and sneered, “People who bother him have a habit of running afoul of something nasty. They say the Bay of Crabs is fed with the remains of his enemies and victories alike, and that’s how he made his money. And rest assured, while some of that Iron Throne gold he spends enters his pocket, none of it comes out of his coffers. The worst is the girls he has in those slave contracts, though. I’d like to introduce that trumped up Vale lord to Tyene someday, just so that the face of a pretty girl like the ones he loves to manipulate is the last thing he sees as he chokes on his own blood.”

Maedhros had kept his mouth shut in response to that. No need to trouble Maglor with Maedhros’s complicated feelings. He’d wanted to cry nonetheless.

Certainly, the brothels were… enough. Disreputable enough to curl Maedhros’s tongue, and frighten that childish part of him that still treated Hoster’s idea of honour as holy word. But they were not what made him flinch while looking in Petyr’s eyes. Not even the harsh and horrifying rumours could make Littlefinger’s once comforting smile look like a evil curl to Maedhros. 

No, it was the truth he could see with his own two eyes that was upsetting. 

They were still having an affair. 

The knowledge hurt. It was also frightening. Too many possibilities were opened by the cavalier betrayal.

Walking to greet Littlefinger was oddly similar to watching Curufin and Celegorm ride in from Nargothrond, their fury and sins resting on their shoulders like beacons. Petyr’s crimes— the ones he could see— were lesser than his brothers’ had been; Maedhros would never fault him for loving Cat too much and he could forgive him turning to Lysa somewhat callously for comfort. Lysa’s woe after that and since was their lord father’s fault. But looking at successful but disreputable, dishonorable, disheartening Petyr was always like looking at failure. Another brother fallen from the heights he could have reached, another denied any good choices because Maedhros was too late and too cowardly to act. 

He embraced Petyr all the same, rather awkwardly; Littlefinger was shorter than even Lysa and Catelyn. Maedhros smiled at him as they pulled apart, and tried not to mourn his lost ‘quiet day’ too much. Petyr smirked back.

“Disgustingly tall as ever!” he declared, clapping his hands. “But this is fortuitous. I thought I’d have to go up to your room to track you down, but here you are, ready to go out. Perfect, now, should we make our way along?”

“Oh no, Petyr,” Maedhros breathed out, amusement mixed in with the trepidation. “Where do you want me to go? I have business to attend to, and I don’t plan to have long in King’s Landing to do it. It’s why I haven’t called on anyone.”

A lie, and Petyr was too clever not to know it. But Petyr was rather good at hollow niceties himself, so he wouldn’t begrudge Maedhros his. 

“Oh? And what business is that? The business that means you can’t dine with me right now.”

Maedhros sighed, and turned his face to the ceiling. He could feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. “I have letters to deliver.”

Petyr laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, age having turned his charming confidence into something mocking. “Then I can send them off for you,” Littlefinger declared. “Honestly, Mae, you’re the only man I know who can make letters into a day-long enterprise. Come. It’s late and you’ve yet to have supper, as this fine man has informed me. We’re going to eat at my place together, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Indeed there wasn’t; at least, not without being rude. Russandol wouldn’t have flinched at denying someone without grace, but Maedhros wouldn’t dare. He held onto those independent pieces of himself. 

So, Petyr caught him.

Shuffled from the inn, Maedhros fetched his horse. He gave the stableboy an extra copper and met Petyr on the road. As they rode for the Red Keep, Petyr crooned and chattered, and it made Maedhros’s stomach sink lower. Not because Petyr’s words were upsetting, but because he had to fight a fond smile at the sight of Littlefinger’s self-satisfied grin. No… complicated though being around Petyr was, Maedhros could not forget all the times clever Littlefinger had helped him with his lessons, or gotten him out of trouble. 

Petyr Baelish had been what Russandol always imagined an older brother would have been like; smart and capable and helpful and just wicked enough. He was Maedhros’s older brother in all but name and blood, and he could not forget those nights when he didn’t know who he was. The wee hours of those long gone mornings when Petyr would take him fishing just so Maedhros didn’t have to be alone with his thoughts. Those were good memories. Familiar, comforting thoughts in dark times; and the soft edges of remembering them felt warm like family.

So, much like his other brothers with their faults— which did include lusting after women— Maedhros could likely forgive Petyr anything.

Which, he acknowledged, was perhaps dangerous.

You’re too sentimental, Hoster always scolded him, we must always remember those who have been good to us, but never forget those who wronged you. Remember, there is a balance. Be too kind, too gentle, too forgiving and it will bite you. 

And, oh, Maedhros knew that lesson. 

Had he not learned it a thousand times in his dreams?

Perhaps the first lecture was Ulfang’s people, whose backs greeted him in his nightmares. Then, the men would turn on the balls of their feet, far more gracefully than the reality, and swipe down with their swords and cold glares. These were creatures who’d had the very warmth sucked from them by Morgoth, and his familiarity with that sensation haunted him. Russandol had hesitated to fight back, and one of his warriors who he didn’t even know the name of had died for that second he took to mourn the spirits of men. After that day… Well, Fingon was dead by then, and Russandol did not hesitate again. That memory, though, had kept young Maedhros awake on dozens of nights during the Rebellion. Don’t trust them, he’d wanted to write to Father. Those foreign men will betray you. They hadn’t. 

But oddly enough, Russandol’s first lesson was probably Maedhros’s last. Hadn’t the first warning sign about the dangers of hesitation been his own family? Hadn’t Maedhros thought, a thousand times, that Russandol should have slain just his own father on the beaches? It would have saved the boats and sweet Telvo. But then, after the rush of numb academic evaluation faded, he’d cried in guilt. After all, certainly he couldn’t kill Hoster Tully. Maedhros couldn’t? The answer to that question had blurred. He was on Pyke when he realized how broken his definition of kinslaying was, how killing his lord father might be as easy as these Iron Islanders. He wasn’t proud of it, but he also elected not to think on it much. 

Because when he did, Maedhros knew that it would have been better for them all if Russandol had just rejected Celegorm and Curufin for their crimes. Then Nargothrond might have joined them in battle. Then they wouldn’t have swayed him to attack Doriath. Then they wouldn’t have died worthless, painful deaths. Better to be rough with Celegorm Snow now, Maedhros reasoned every time he sent him to bed with training bruises or withheld dinner, than to have to cut him down later. 

The last lesson only made sense after having raised that impetuous boy, but it was Maglor who made Maedhros realized how dangerous caring about his almost-brother could be. It had been a good night, right up until Maglor whispered, “Do you think our twins would recognize us?”

Not _the_ twins, or _those Eluchil_ twins, but _our_ twins. And Maedhros had been slammed all at once with one of the many pieces of Russandol’s sentiment that he tried to ignore. Maedhros had simply bid Maglor good night in response, retreated to his room and tugged out a journal with only the slightest hysteria. Then, against the pounding tides of differently flavored emotions, he wrote Maedhros’s take on the situation.

For the first few years keeping Elrond and Elros with them was political, but after that… Foolishness. Hadn’t it just strained relations with the rest of Beleriand further? Put them in danger? Made them out to be the child killers Russandol always tried to hope he wasn’t? Sending the twins back to their families would not have scarred them so badly as traveling with a roving force of kinslayers, and the action might have made Gil-Galad trust them more. The Sindar would have had a king, and they wouldn’t have been so divided and scattered come the War of Wrath.

And, beyond all those lessons, there was the obvious one. The Oath— which he could recite in his sleep, but never spoke aloud for superstitious fear— need not even be mentioned.

Ifs, perhaps, buts… They seemed so far away, as if they belonged to Russandol alone. But they dogged him still. Locked tightly in his desk in Riverrun were scores of journals full of possibilities and analyses. It seemed he was always asking what he could have done, what what he should have done, what… Maedhros Tully would have done. He woke every morning with a question to Russandol already half-asked on his tongue: how do we not fail this time?

The thoroughness that he once walked the path of destruction with haunted him. The phantom memories of that life’s scars lingered. Some days, it was almost debilitating. 

He felt like a whole, healthy, _sane_ person, but knew it could not be so. His hand twitched from an injury that was not— had never been— there. Somedays Maedhros flinched while looking in a mirror, and there was no satisfactory rhyme or reason for it. In his chest, he could feel a great bloody scab that was pulsing, those frightful gates beating out of rhythm with his heart. One day, Maedhros feared, it would rip or tear and some great and awful secret would come pouring out unstoppably. On that day, Maedhros Tully would lose himself entirely.

He would drown from the inside.

It was both a gift and a curse to have once been someone else. Much good came from it, perspective and lessons and advice. His brothers who he would have never met otherwise, such as beloved Celegorm Snow. But there was also great grief and fear, of which he’d only scratched the surface. The sensations of that pain now lurked beneath his skin, and they were only half-remembered. But they lingered.

All the same, Maedhros had recorded the reasons for those long erased scars well enough. 

Sentiment, inescapable but tempered, and… his own weakness. Maedhros had once been too frightened of small hurts to truly lead anyone. Too worried about hurting Lysa and damning Littlefinger to intervene in an obviously dysfunctional situation. 

Maedhros sighed.

“Petyr,” he called, grabbing Littlefinger’s attention. “Tell me truthfully, Petyr, what has possessed Lysa to send the twins to Dragonstone. And don’t tell me you don’t know. Why does Stannis Baratheon care, and how could Lysa let him take the boys? Especially Amras.”

From his horse, Petyr considered him carefully, head tilted like a bird and face finally devoid of that smug grin. “I’m afraid, Maedhros,” he said at length, “that what I know is exactly what has been previously said. Lysa is merely honoring the agreement previously made between Lord Arryn and Lord Baratheon. She says that she just doesn’t want the twins separated, and I believe her. You know how those two are.”

That he did. Both in this life and the last.

Maedhros hummed. 

They rode on in silence, before leaving the horses in the Red Keep’s stable and making their way to the Master of Coin’s chambers. As they walked on, something harsh and cold coiled in Maedhros’s chest, and it burned. He followed Petyr into the receiving chamber of his rooms, counting off all his problems and concerns silently. _The twins. Jon Arryn. Stannis Baratheon. Lysa. The new Hand, Cat’s husband. Curufin. Celegorm coming South. Huan. Murder. The crown. Russandol. Maedhros Tully. Purpose. Duty. Family and duty. Family or duty. Petyr. The affair. The Vale. The Bay of Crabs… Littlefinger._

Maedhros closed his eyes and crossed his arms. When he glanced around, carefully following Littlefinger to his dining room, there were no servants about. 

“Petyr,” he once more intoned at Littlefinger’s back. _One more chance._ “Tell me about Lysa. Please.”

And for second, just barely a moment, Maedhros really thought he would. 

Then Petyr’s shoulders relaxed, and he swung around with a helpless look on his face. “Mae,” he stressed beseechingly, as if he was still talking to a child. “I’ve already told you, if Lysa has hidden motives, I don’t know what they are. And honestly, this is Lysa we’re talking about, she-”

Maedhros grabbed Littlefinger by the collar before he could finish, spinning his childhood friend— his brother— around and slamming him into the wall.

“Don’t _lie_ to me, Petyr,” Maedhros hissed quietly.

“Mae! I wouldn’t, I didn’t-”

“If you weren’t lying to me, you wouldn’t have even answered me while we were on the street. Not seriously. Or at least you would have answered me _in private_ if you ever meant to tell me. If you weren’t lying, Petyr, you wouldn’t have tried to make this seem small, when I know you’re too smart to think that. Jon is dead, and I don’t like how flippant you are.”

Littlefinger laughed. It was a wheezing, choking sound, and occured to Maedhros that he might have thrown all the air out of the small man’s lungs with that slam. He let go, and watched nervously as Petyr righted himself and flicked his eyes past Maedhros. The door, he could suddenly hear, was creaking open. He didn’t turn to look though, because Petyr began speaking.

“Poor Mae, still rushing in to play the hero with no thought. I’m hardly being flippant, old friend, it’s just that there are bigger conspiracies abound than your sister’s deteriorating mental state. Do drop the prudish indignation long enough that we can work together. Cat won’t like it if we can’t get along.”

“Cat?”

“Maedhros?” The answering voice came from over his shoulder. And there she was. Catelyn stood in the doorway, looking aged and tired, and there were bandages on her fingers.

Maedhros imagined he must have looked like a fool for a second as he took in the sight of his eldest sister in King’s Landing. Then he curled his fingers in fists and a stone settled in his gut, because this was not the problem he was meant to be fixing right now. His jaw clenched. Things were rapidly spinning out of control, and Maedhros was suddenly seized with the desire to ride to Dorne and shake Maglor. His brother’s nervous letters weren’t making more sense, but they were now fitting more easily into the larger, increasingly chaotic picture.

“What are you doing here?” Maedhros barked at Catelyn, his control slipping, and she bristled. He instantly recognized his mistake. 

Catelyn drew herself up and raised her finger, and Maedhros realised he’d forgotten how severe she was and about the steel on her spine. He’d forgotten that he hadn’t won very many fights against her, the woman who was often just as much their lord father’s heir as he. For good reason, too, as Catelyn was the only of the Tully siblings with the same fire in her as Maedhros. Edmure and Lysa were both perfectly capable of starting and continuing a fight, but neither knew how to win an argument, and neither could cow him like Catelyn. They didn’t carry her weight and dignity. Or sense.

She was… frightening, and Catelyn could make Maedhros feel like the child he wasn’t sure he had ever been.

“I have _never_ been so insulted by a member of my own family—”

He winced. The scolding continued. 

“—and I will have you know that my movements are _not_ yours to question—”

 _Ah_ , he thought, somewhere between her questioning the quality of his raising and his pride, _I’d forgotten how potent her words can be._

In his defense of his memory, though, Catelyn had been away for a very long time. He’d only seen her twice since she went to the North with Ned Stark, and once was when they had performed their fight about Celegorm.

Jocelyn Forrester had dryly informed him after the row that “ _your_ fight with _your_ sister over the fate of _my_ son was very loud. It shook the walls. Frightened the children,” and he’d been ashamed. But that argument had not been a fight he was willing to lose. Whether or not Catelyn wanted to be altruistic to the bastard Brandon Stark fathered while betrothed to her had not mattered to Maedhros. He did regret, though, that Catelyn and he hadn’t spoken well or easily since, not like family or friends or anything more than acquaintances. Her letters all read like she was writing to some random stormlord, and not her brother. It was how Curufin often used to phrase his messages.

It stung. And it had saddened him. Now, at least, Catelyn seemed inclined to treat him as an unruly younger brother, which was an improvement. Maedhros had missed her when she went North. Not as much as Edmure ached for her, but Maedhros had enjoyed having an overbearing older sister who paid attention to his table manners, and reminded him of where to go and when to be there and what to wear. And while he wasn’t quite sure he’d forgiven her for the casual cruelty of her disdainful dismissal of Celegorm and that Jon Snow, who Celegorm loved so much… Seeing her face again made it almost sweet to endure her scolding. It was the same Catelyn, just older and wiser and more tired. 

With bloody bandages wrapped around her palms.

She was an adult now, Maedhros realized bitterly. It was something that should have occurred to him when she had her first child, maybe when he saw her as Lady of Winterfell, or after their bitter estrangement. But it hadn’t. 

He’d always had trouble acknowledging that his siblings were grown and changed. That Catelyn was technically older than him didn’t seem to make it any easier.

“—and if you won’t greet me with the respect I am due as your sister, then treat me as the Lady Stark. Demanding an explanation for my presence— you have some nerve, Maedhros Tully. I ought to teach you your manners again.” She huffed, and the bags under her eyes looked more pronounced. At least she seemed to have run out of steam.

Maedhros smiled, and if it was a little sad… Catelyn would know better than anyone that he’d always been melancholy, even as a child. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Catelyn softened. “You just surprised me is all. But seeing you is a great surprise, Cat, and I ought not to have made it sound like a complaint or a reprimand.”

He walked across the dining room and she met him halfway, coming into his open arms without prompt. 

Maedhros, more than anything else, noticed how her fingers twitched at his back, as if trying to grip him but unable. He pulled back, faster and sooner than Cat obviously expected, and grabbed her hands as Catelyn pulled them towards her sides. With a loose grip Maedhros inspected her cleanly bandaged hands. There was no blood spotted on them, but Catelyn’s fingers remained oddly curled as if she couldn’t straighten them properly. He looked up at her with burning eyes.

Catelyn met his look without fail, but her gaze was not challenging and questioning like his. She was steady, if exhausted and upset. Malcontent. Frightened, distraught, and quietly furious.

Maedhros slid his grip down to her wrists, and squeezed tightly. “Catelyn… why are you here?” His words were quiet and calm, but they seethed. There was no allowance in them for question or deflection. 

When Catelyn answered she sounded less like she was following his unspoken command, and more like she was humoring his request. She pulled her shoulders back, and settled a thin shawl around her shoulders more comfortably. Her wounded hands she awkwardly clasped in front of her chest. “The Lannisters conspire against us, Maedhros. Ned must be warned.”

Slowly, Maedhros blew a breath from his nose. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight, and considered her words. Then he began to berate himself.

This probably should have been the danger he was expecting. Hoster hated the Lannisters. The royal family was tearing itself to pieces, and he’d always suspected it would likely combust. Maglor claimed his family conspired against the Lannisters, and that brought them both great concern. Tywin Lannister was terrifying in his competence, in his slow and methodical ambition. Caranthir talked about the queen as if she was a balrog.

But oddly enough, the Lannisters were never the other foot Maedhros had been expecting to drop. Perhaps he’d kept his eyes too closely locked on the Targaryens. He was probably overly concerned with Feanor Blackfyre’s late family, blinded by old expectations. Or maybe his flaw was in his more religious preoccupations. Surely, he’d thought, Eru Iluvatar didn’t consign them to this life to manage the squabbles of Men? There must be some errant member of the Seven, or a vengeance of the Old Gods about to fall on their shoulders. Otherwise, why would the sons of Feanor be in Westeros?

Otherwise… well, this life wouldn’t be a punishment. It would be respite.

“Explain,” Maedhros muttered sharply, drawing the word out. Catelyn didn’t blink.

She related the whole sordid tale. Lysa’s letter, Bran’s fall, the assassin. The dagger that Littlefinger identified. 

That was pretty damning. It also made certain things make more sense. 

Maedhros nodded to Catelyn as he considered her words, then walked over to sit at the dining room table set for three. He sat for a time, slumped, trying to think. The inspiration, the words and answers and plans, didn’t come, though. His mind was blank space, and when he prodded at Russandol no enlightening memories came forth. He sighed heavily and hung his head.

“Petyr,” Maedhros finally said at length. “Are we actually going to have dinner? Because I truly haven’t eaten.”

Littlefinger laughed. It eased the tension in his shoulders, and Maedhros thought, _at least something good came out of this development._

“Right,” Petyr crooned, “I’ll have dinner served all in one go, and then dismiss dear Maddie, the serving girl. We can discuss what to do next over food, and then I’m afraid you must be on your way. The Keep is largely empty of Lannisters at present, but it’s slowly filling back up with cut throats as the Lannisters draw nearer.” He walked from the room to call for supper. Catelyn, with a weary sigh and great wariness, sat across from Maedhros at the table.

The silence lasted barely a second. 

“Amras and Amrod wrote to me after Lord Arryn died,” Maedhros blurted out, catching Cat’s attention and causing her to sit up in surprise. “It was short and I burned it, but it read _’Too sick too fast. Myrcella could no longer visit our tower. He was investigating something’._ I know you haven’t seen them since they were very little, but they are clever boys, Catelyn. I believe them, that’s why I’m so concerned about the twins being sent away. I assumed whoever killed Jon was forcing Lysa’s hand. But… I can’t fathom the Lannisters have her ear. At least if she wrote to you she isn’t concerned about her mail. I don’t know what to think now.”

Catelyn looked sympathetic, and for a second he thought she was going to reach across the table to offer her hand in comfort. Instead, she simply nodded, and considered him. “Who did you suspect?” she asked at length.

_Petyr._

But that would upset Cat. And it didn’t matter anymore.

“Anyone. Everyone. Sometimes I thought it was some random person who Jon was planning to bring before the council for some crime. Treason or stealing or something of the like. I wondered…” Maedhros considered keeping that to himself, but decided it was too late once he saw Catelyn’s inquisitive look. “I wondered about Stannis too, I suppose. A friend of mine heard that he was working with Jon. I postulated that their investigation might have not gone how Stannis wanted it to, then he took the boys as collateral over Lysa to cover himself. I had several of theories. But Stannis Baratheon wouldn’t work with the Lannisters.”

“No,” Littlefinger declared, the word coming from over their shoulders. “He would not.” Petyr sauntered back into the dining room, a young girl behind him. She carried two plates. The girl set one of the meals in front of Maedhros and the other at Petyr’s place at the head of the table, then quickly scurried off for Catelyn’s plate. Littlefinger settled into his seat. They fell into silence until after the girl came back and was then dismissed for the night.

Maedhros began to eat, but Petyr barely sipped at his wine before settling the glass back down and leaning back as if he was holding court.

“So,” Petyr said, pleased grin on his face, “I would like it stated, and for it to be remembered, that _this_ is why I am ‘flippant’ about Lysa’s twins being on Dragonstone. Why would Stannis Baratheon, literal and honorable Stannis, have hidden motives? And he certainly wouldn’t conspire with the Lannisters, who Lysa is certain killed the late Lord Arryn. And I knew from the Small Council that Lord Arryn and Stannis were in quite close confidence. And—”

“Yes, I understand, Petyr,” Maedhros groaned, a flush coming upon his face. Shame curled in his chest next to the bursting relief. “You can stop. I’m sorry.” He was smiling while he whined though.

“Oh no, Mae. I think I need to make my point a little longer. So, I also deduced that with young Bran’s life being endangered, and the twins being so clever, it’s very likely they could be in danger. Jon might have arranged the fostering to protect the boys. Lysa probably knew this, and surely their lives are worth more than ascending a ceremonial seat that Lysa would be regent of anyway? _So_ , to conclude, if Lysa has any hidden motive— which I wouldn’t know anyway, because we did not have a chance to speak after Lord Arryn died— that motive is probably protecting her sons. Which, I think you’ll agree, Mae, is hardly scandalous.”

Maedhros, cheeks still glowing with equal pleasure and embarrassment, took a somewhat petulant bite of his roll. He decided to apologize to all of his brothers, Edmure included, for every time he had been insufferably superior and condescending. 

“I do not want to know what this has been,” Catelyn said in the scolding voice that she perfected at thirteen. “But I will trust that this matter, whatever it may be, has been settled. I will not accept otherwise.”

“Yes, Catelyn,” Petyr and Maedhros said in unison, one voice gleeful, one mournful. 

“Now,” she hissed, “We have to ask what is to be done.”

Maedhros rolled his shoulders and settled more deeply in his chair. “You came here for Lord Stark, I assume,” he said, eyeing Catelyn. She nodded.

“I have to speak to Ned. He needs to know about Bran, and the girls might be in danger now! We always suspected that he would need to protect the king from conspiracy, but now we have definitive proof they will go so far as to kill children. As Hand of the King, though, Ned can certainly go about bringing the Lannisters to justice. This needs to be brought before the king.” 

Petyr hummed, a noise from high in his throat that wasn’t entirely impressed. He just picked at his dinner instead of replying to Cat though. Maedhros could guess that they’d already gone through this exact conversation before, and Littlefinger obviously held no confidence in Cat’s husband’s ability to single-handedly bring the Lannisters to justice.

Maedhros would never claim to know Eddard Stark, but he did respect the man a great deal. He’d earned Maedhros’s regard in his handling of Celegorm, in at least so far as Ned didn’t kill the boy and was positively enthused to let him travel the path of a knight. By the same token though, Eddard didn’t seem to realize knighthood could have even been an option for Celegorm before Maedhros brought it to his attention. Catelyn’s husband didn’t seem to think very cleverly, at least not when it didn’t involve battle strategies. While that honesty could be admirable in its own right, the quality didn’t exactly prime a man for routing the people who had managed to raise _Caranthir._

Which reminded Maedhros of the most pressing concern.

But that would have to be brought up delicately. Later.

“Lord Eddard is the one who should lead this vanguard,” Maedhros said carefully. “He needs to be informed as soon as possible, and I imagine he will guide our actions from there. Though I had not planned to linger for so long, I will stay for a time more to offer your husband my assistance. I imagine Robert will stage some massive event, that can be reason enough to loiter without suspicion.” _There will also be more opportunities to speak to Caranthir. Perhaps even Curufin._ “That being said, I’d still like to see Amras and Amrod and ask their perspective. Stannis needs to be questioned as well. I don’t doubt I’ll be on Dragonstone before the year’s out, at this point just to apologise for writing so many angry letters and to soothe our lord father’s worries.”

“I doubt Father likes you being away from home for so long,” Catelyn said sharply, but it sounded perfunctory. Maedhros doubted she truly cared, but Edmure and Hoster probably complained about his ‘excessive’ travel too many times for her not to scold. It didn’t matter. Yes, he hadn’t spent much time in Riverrun since he was sixteen and sent to squire for Jon Arryn, but there was nothing Hoster’s disapproval could do now. Maedhros shrugged at Catelyn. 

“There are more important matters to attend to outside of our homes, as you obviously know.” She looked appropriately chastised. “I imagine you’ll be returning North?”

“Yes,” Catelyn breathed, but she looked pained by the admission. Fear was plain on her face. “I’ll go after I speak to Ned. Though it pains me to leave Arya and Sansa here, my boys need me more.”

“Not to mention it’s dangerous,” Petyr said. “Already it’s becoming a liability to house you here. I plan to prepare somewhere else for you to stay, Cat.” She and Maedhros both nodded to this. Petyr continued, “I’m already here, so I will of course offer your husband my assistance, as well. But how shall we go about this? Surely Lord Stark can’t go barging into the throne room waving around a dagger and shouting Lysa’s accusations as the only evidence.”

Catelyn bristled, but Maedhros cut her off before she could even begin. Because Petyr was right.

“A dagger and testimony might be enough to convict some, but not the queen’s kin…If not Queen Cersei herself, should she be implicated,” Maedhros declared, and Catelyn let out a huff, no doubt thinking the woman was guilty. He closed his eyes before continuing. “First and foremost, a motive needs to be found.”

“Is supreme power in the realm not a motive?” Petyr asked sardonically.

“Certainly,” Maedhros muttered, because that was all the motive Feanor needed to burn the boats. But it tasted bitter in his mouth to say, even as he tried to remind himself that the memories were not of this world. _Knowledge, not feeling._ “But that’s just the easiest explanation. Why Jon Arryn, why now, why not wait for their own son to take the throne in due time? Our lord father maintains that inheritance was always Tywin Lannister’s plan, so it makes no sense for them to endanger themselves now. Something has happened to make them play their hands sooner. Something Jon Arryn knew… and probably Bran, too. They wouldn’t take risks otherwise. That’s what we need to know before presenting this matter to King Robert.”

Maedhros slowly rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, then laid his head against his hand. As silence pressed around them, the atmosphere seemed to simultaneously absorb his words and bulge with everyone’s silent thoughts. He fought the urge to bite at his fingernails, thinking mournfully of all the quills he’d ruined with his unconscious gnawing. He sighed.

“There is a second part of this investigation,” Maedhros said, hoping but not believing this part of the conversation would go easily. “We’ll have to identify, with the utmost care, which of the Lannisters are actually guilty. I don’t like this business with the dagger. I doubt Tyrion Lannister is stupid enough to use his own knife. Perhaps he’s being framed.” _Caranthir says there’s issue within the family. Maybe they’re trying to rid themselves of someone they consider a blemish._

Petyr snorted, but it was Catelyn that answered. “Why would they implicate one of their own? They’re a family, Maedhros. I imagine the weapon’s use was a matter of pride. Besides, it certainly wasn’t the vile criminal’s plan to get caught. Similarly, I know you’re trying to be charitable to a lady, Mae, but I don’t doubt for a second that Queen Cersei conspires with her brothers. She’s a wholly distasteful woman. Besides the children, there isn’t a reason for any of them to keep their motives hidden from one another.”

“Ah, but that is a problem,” Littlefinger interjected, surprising Maedhros and interrupting his rebuttal to Catelyn. “Which of them are children?”

Maedhros’s heart sank.

Petyr kept talking. “The littlest prince and the princess, obviously, but the older princes have seen enough years to interject in their mother’s family affairs. Weren’t we always sneaking around Lord Tully’s business at that age? Mae, you were even younger!”

What Maedhros hated most about Petyr was that every word out of his mouth was so utterly unpleasant, but also completely true. He was glad Catelyn replied first.

“That’s nonsense, Petyr,” she huffed, effectively silencing Littlefinger in the way only she could. “Both princes are younger than Robb. Besides, I met the princes in Winterfell, and I doubt either capable of duplicity, let alone willing to plot against the king. The Crown Prince, especially, is obviously more his father’s son than his mother’s. He’s a cold boy… I’d guess him frightfully willing to forsake his Lannister kin, but he’s not a traitor to his own crown.”

_Well… that sounds right._

“Yes, I’m aware,” Petyr said with only the slightest exasperation. “The divide in the royal family is quite well known to those who have even glanced at them, the Crown Prince’s estrangement from his mother especially. But neither of you understand the inner politics of King’s Landing as I do. The Lannisters and their servants are an infestation here, you can never know who they have their hooks in and how. In the Crown Prince’s case, I’d never overlook the influence of his personal guard, Caranthir Lannister.”

Catelyn’s confused re-evaluation was evident on her face, but Maedhros didn’t move. In fact, he went almost unnaturally still.

“Certainly you noticed the young knight hovering over Prince Curufin’s shoulder imperiously?” Petyr said, that classic, just short of impolite superiority coating his voice. “He doesn’t have the Lannister hair, but he’s the son of Tywin Lannister’s favorite brother, and purportedly the Lord of Casterly Rock’s favored nephew. Ser Caranthir is also an infamously troubled young man, odd and maybe even deranged, with a temper and an odd fixation on the Crown Prince. Most importantly, he’s been Curufin Baratheon’s closest companion for almost the prince’s entire life, and they are thick as thieves. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“I suppose I did see Ser Caranthir. Yes, he was probably the one always shepherding Prince Curufin around and whispering in his ear. He seemed to be reminding the prince of his manners, though not nearly enough.” From the way Catelyn spoke, Maedhros could guess that Curufin had offended the Starks in some spectacular way. He didn’t want to know, and was thankfully saved from asking when Catelyn sniffed disdainfully. “Of course, that was when Ser Caranthir wasn’t off drinking with Celegorm Snow.”

Maedhros fought the spasm that ran through his body, but had to sit up and draw attention all the same. Before he even realized the expression had slipped onto his face, his jaw was clenched. Confronted with Maedhros’s glare, Catelyn seemed to regret her decision to dredge up her dislike for Celegorm, but she didn’t recant or apologize. Catelyn didn’t know how to admit she was wrong, especially about matters she considered an affront to dignity.

There weren’t many in Westeros who thought there was any value to bastard children, and many more who seemed to think the babes should drowned upon birth. Traversing the the seven kingdoms with Celegorm Snow trailing in his shadow had been a trial of patience and restraint, and even then Maedhros had broken Patrek Mallister’s nose once. His only defense was the certainty that he’d seen Celegorm— so young, so vulnerable— hiss like a cat in public only to lick his wounds in private far too many times. It was hard for Maedhros to keep his temper after that. He just found the simple cruelty towards bastards, from people who were otherwise capable of effusive kindness and charity, deeply appalling. 

Despite his Elven lessons and proclivities, Maedhros had not been fazed by the concept of extramarital children. At least no more than he was fazed by any of the other cultural differences between Elves and Men. He simply jotted that Elves could not— or was it did not?— have bastards into his chart. By the same token, though, he guessed it was Russandol that softened his feelings towards bastards to the point where those prejudices didn’t exist. Bloodlines were important to elves, but children— be they the son of Fingon or Orodreth— were more so. Maedhros was probably just too young to have any prejudices when he came into his Elven knowledge and Russandol colored his worldview, a thought that was equal parts comforting and distressing. Maybe it was something else. It didn’t really matter. Maedhros didn’t care.

He didn’t care about what Catelyn thought either, and broke their eye contact with a huff. Maedhros went back to his dinner, and a stony silence settled, each of them avoiding the contentious subject that still went unspoken. The topic hung in the air as he ate, but Cat and Littlefinger’s could be as uncomfortable as they wanted with their thoughts for all Maedhros cared. Their opinions on the subject didn’t matter.

Celegorm and Maglor’s probably did. But, oddly enough, Maglor even once confessed to being upset by the notion of bastards. 

And Maedhros had laughed at him. “Maglor,” he’d said beseechingly, grin spread across his face, “I hate to be the one to tell you—”

Maglor’d hit him, and settled in to pout. Eventually Maedhros’s biggest little brother explained though. He was, Maglor confessed, not ashamed or angry; just _unnerved_ by the knowledge that Men could love and engage and come together without tying themselves to one another. Maglor had been unsettled knowing his father cared so little— or perhaps cared so much— about so many. “It must be exhausting,” Maglor’d trailed off, “knowing that many songs so intimately. I can’t imagine how he walks away.” 

Words with double meaning always sounded thick to Maedhros, as if the scribe who wrote their dialogue used too much ink on those lines. How did he walk away indeed.

Ravennië had been a member of their family longer than Ambarussa, if the courtship counted. Russandol often and sincerely referred to her as ‘sister’ in his thoughts and memories, because— while he had been fond of Aikanaris— Ravennië was a _friend_ , in addition to being his brother’s wife. 

As Maedhros Tully, the memory of how she and Macalaurë would find each other’s hands unconsciously, like two magnets constantly drawn together, was still crystal clear and haunting. Once, it was a warm recollection, but it had cooled. Music, Maedhros believed, was like the metal set aglow, twisting and sparking and making shapes. Its core value could not be change, but the prize was always changing and being manipulated by masters like his brother and the only woman Russandol called sister. And then Ravennië walked away, and Macalaurë never sang love songs or played duets again. That metal, which once Maglor knew so well he could use his fingers to make an infinite number of beautiful shapes, had cooled into something ugly.

The emphasized words hung heavily in the air between them, so they’d dropped the conversation. Who was Maedhros to judge the different ways Maglor projected his past life onto this one? Despite Edmure’s urging, he hadn’t been able to be with anyone else either, physically or otherwise.

Maedhros set down his utensils with too much force, and cringed at the sound he’d made.

“Well!” Petyr said in response, effectively drawing Catelyn and Maedhros attention back to him. “That was pleasant. There are many factors to take in here. The wisest thing to do is to not rule out any of the Lannisters as suspects yet, despite any… bonds that exist. Keep your indignation to yourself, Mae; older and wiser men than your former squire have been taken in by promises of friendship amid wine, and then been betrayed. The same can be said for the princes. Fond of his father as Prince Curufin might be, all sons can be manipulated by their mothers.”

Maedhros had no way to argue that his brothers would not be complicit in the murder of children without sounding mad… especially because it wasn’t true… 

So, he crushed that thought into a fine powder and forsook the subject.

“We can sit here discussing who is guilty and how all night,” Maedhros declared, bookending his words with a sigh. “But if we are all in agreement that Lord Stark, being in the best position of power, is going to be making the decisions and directing out efforts, nothing more can be done or said until his arrival. Nothing productive about this matter, at least, when there are other tasks that need attending to. I still have to send my letters out, and after hearing all this I’d rather not do that from the Keep.”

“Fair,” Petyr replied, slouching in his chair. “I suppose you’ll be making your way back to that inn then?”

Maedhros nodded.

“Alright. I don’t suppose it’s too suspicious if you and I continue to meet, but Cat, you must be moved before the Lannisters arrive.”

“I suppose so,” Catelyn muttered with her head bowed. She sounded exhausted, and just a little defeated.

Despite himself, Maedhros felt his heart ache for her, painfully so, all at once. Danger was falling upon their heads so suddenly, and certainly she had the most to lose. Her sister, her nephews, her husband, the daughters she had to let go, and the son who lay unconscious even now. Certainly not even the bone-deep wounds in her hands could be more painful for Catelyn than that knowledge. Especially as it was coupled with the helplessness.

She had always taken it upon herself to protect and guard her family, assuming responsibility for things that weren’t her fault and fearlessly confronting potential enemies without hesitation. After their lady mother died, she went around Riverrun in a whirlwind, Edmure on her hip, drying tears, commanding servants, directing methods of tax collections, even changing sheets herself. Anything to keep herself busy, anything to help and make a change in even the smallest way. 

Not having the ability to take action now though… being forced to sit quietly while peril mounted around you… It was a special kind of torture.

Maedhros could empathise. They were, perhaps, too similar at times, him and his eldest sister. But they both took their Tully words very seriously, and it bound them.

_‘Family. Duty. Honour.’_

Maedhros could not say if the Tullys were cleverly chosen or made or molded for Russandol, or if _Maedhros_ had always been one of them. A puzzle piece that fit two images, perhaps. Either way, he felt that the role of Maedhros Tully, heir to Riverrun, suited him. More so than many of the positions Russandol had once filled.

And he was grateful to be one of them, rather than anything else

He stood, walked around the table, and embraced Catelyn tightly. When he held her now-frailer body, Maedhros gripped tight and sighed deeply. From the way she cupped his face after pulling back, he guessed she’d forgiven him. Or at least understood him. Catelyn always understood. She often couldn’t interpret the signals she sensed, but she usually felt too much from others. For this reason, among many, he hoped she left King’s Landing before all his brothers arrived.

Then, after a soft kiss to her cheek, Maedhros turned his attention to Petyr. He held out his hand to shake. Littlefinger grasped his hand without hesitation, and Maedhros used the moment to pull him into an embrace as well. “I’m sorry,” Maedhros whispered quietly in Petyr’s ears.

Petyr replied with a low chuckle, one that that still sounded disquieting to Maedhros’s shame. 

“Don’t be! You’re in a difficult position, Mae, I do not envy you. A little paranoia is warranted,” Littlefinger declared, pulling back. Despite the absolution though, an uncomfortable feeling still crawled across Maedhros’s skin, and he could not tell which emotion the sensation came from. So, he simply shook his head at the forgiveness, already preparing a longer apology. Hopefully it would create a chance to air what had come between them. 

Petyr, though— perhaps in order to avoid further emotional truthfulness or simply to spare Cat— kept talking away from the subject. “But do come visit me again while you’re in King’s Landing,” he said forcefully, even going so far as to wink. “You know, I won’t always be able to clear all the servants away. If you could visit me at one of my brothels though, no one would raise any eyebrows! I know your preferences are a little unique, but I’m sure we could still cater.”

Petyr smirked.

Maedhros paused for a beat. Then he said, “All right. My guilt is gone.”

“Aw, Mae!”

With a raised hand, Maedhros left without another word. Best not to linger any longer.

His ride back to the inn was silent, and it gave Maedhros much needed time to calm himself some. Faces and motivations and plots kept flashing through his mind, swirling indefinitely. But there was very little he could do until the king’s party arrived, and his stagnation had nothing to do with Ned Stark. Caranthir would have to be consulted.

Maedhros, seeing how high the moon was in the sky, elected to send out his letters tomorrow. For now, he needed rest. 

But rest would not come, much to his despair. When Maedhros arrived at the inn, there was a only a small group of patrons scattered around the dining area. The portly innkeeper was scrubbing at one of the tables with single-minded determination, but his severe gaze spotted Maedhros instantly. Maedhros simply raised a hand in greeting, hoping to make a painless retreat. His heart sank, though, as the innkeep walked towards him with a sour expression. Maedhros fought the urge to stomp his foot and settled on sighing. 

The innkeeper didn’t waste time. He didn’t even pause in his movements as he waddled to another table past Maedhros, simply grunting his message as he walked by. “There’s a guest waiting in your room, some short man.”

And Maedhros’s heart pounded just that little bit harder. 

To anyone watching, nothing changed about his expression. Maedhros simply gave a nod of gratitude that wasn’t seen, and made his way upstairs, without any sign of distress or excitement. Perhaps he walked up the steps deliberately slow movements; but nothing more eye catching than that. As he stalled his pace and the inevitable meeting, Maedhros swiftly ran through possibilities for who his ‘guest’ could be. The man had not given a name, apparently, or at least he hadn’t insisted on announcing himself formally. Which was not promising. Short was not promising, but that most likely acquitted all of his brothers. At best his guest was a Riverlord trying for subtlety, or maybe one of the smallfolk looking for patronage or favor.

At worst… well, at worst, the man certainly wouldn’t have announced himself. Surely.

Maedhros was not the kind of man to carry a sword to deliver letters, but he pulled a long hunting knife from his boot and tucked it into his belt. 

Hand resting on the blade’s hilt, Maedhros opened the door to his room cautiously. He kept his gaze and stance casual as best he could, but angled his body in anticipation of an attack from around the side of the door. None came. Instead, Maedhros was simply greeted with the sight of haggard man seated at the table in the center of the room.

His guest looked up when Maedhros entered the room, and smiled somewhat grimly. Without prompt, he held up his hands and pulled at his cloak and clothes to show he was unarmed. Maedhros merely returned the bitterly amused look sourly, and didn’t bother feeling sheepish for his caution. He’d not had the ability to feel shame for such things since he was a child.

He shut the door with a dull thud.

“Good evening, my good man,” Maedhros intoned blandly. “Might I ask who I am speaking to and what business you have with me tonight?”

His guest gave a girlish giggle, and Maedhros shuddered.

“Forgive me, but I do think it prudent to insist on some measure of secrecy when men are dying at random,” said Lord Varys, straightening and giving a small but teasing smile. Maedhros fought the urge to go for his dagger again in response, and simply heaved a sigh. Without further preamble he walked around the table and took the empty seat, before levelling Varys with an impassive look. Maedhros raised an eyebrow.

He’d met Varys twice before, the first time being an entirely unremarkable introduction when Maedhros was still Jon Arryn’s squire. They’d exchanged names, were appropriately polite, and within the next few months Maedhros was sent back to the Vale without having spoken to the Spider again. That was how most of his time as a squire went. The Hand of the King was a busy man, he had no time for training adolescent boys. So, Lord Arryn typically left Maedhros in the Blackfish’s care at the Bloody Gate, while he went about his business in King’s Landing. Maedhros couldn’t say he’d despaired over those circumstances, as it meant he didn’t have to bother with court very often.

But his absence from Jon Arryn’s side did mean that he had been woefully unprepared to understand and navigate Lord Varys’s clever traps the second time they’d spoken. Maedhros had accidentally given up Celegorm’s secret, and felt deep guilt for that mistake since. So, no, Maedhros did not care for the Master of Whispers at all, because his interest in you, much like an actual spider, was a bad omen.

Maedhros dispensed with the pleasantries, and grimly said, “Why are you here?”

“Oh, for a great many reasons, potentially. There is much happening all at once, Lord Maedhros, but as you’ve already been to see your lady sister, there’s no need to discuss Jon Arryn. I’ve already given her what I know, so I imagine you have that information as well.”

It did not surprise Maedhros in the least to hear that Varys knew of Catelyn, so he simply nodded. He really didn’t want to give Varys the satisfaction of catching him off guard. 

“No, my lord,” Varys continued, “I’m afraid you and I have much larger issues to discuss.” 

Varys paused for a moment, so Maedhros supposed that meant he had to reply. 

“That’s a frightful implication, Lord Varys,” Maedhros muttered, and settled back in his chair to hear the rest.

“Yes, it is,” Lord Varys continued. “And I want you to understand that I do not use such words lightly, and I’m not trying to be grandiose or dramatic. But I fear that great calamity is coming, and, if it can’t be smothered in its crib, ruin will follow. The matter of Jon Arryn’s death and his killers are one thing, one we can still solve. There are other issues though, ones that have been simmering for a long while, just waiting for a chance to overflow; a chance that might be rapidly approaching. Put frankly, the realm is fractured, and it is on the verge of shattering if the motion is not stopped, or fail-safes not put into place.” 

Varys’s speech, Maedhros thought, sounded very practiced; well-composed. Even the measured tremor of anxiety in his voice was certainly part of the presentation. But Maedhros also did not think it fake. He considered Varys and his words for a moment, but he only spared a cursory thought to the ‘other issues’ of which he spoke. 

Instead, Maedhros said, “The realm has always been divided. That’s why it’s called the Seven Kingdoms. Westeros is made of disparate peoples with different priorities, beliefs, and values. It was fractured upon conception, and it will be upon dissolution, as was written into our history the second the lords paramount were allowed to keep their titles and lands. What exactly has changed? Why does it matter?”

“Ah,” Varys breathed quietly. “You think the Seven Kingdoms beholden to the Iron Throne are different from the Free Cities. From any other large nation. Well then, I ask you Lord Maedhros, what are the kingdoms but larger conglomerates of smaller lands, and those lands towns, and those towns families, and those families people? If we talk about each individual as if their individual priorities and desires, which are inherent in all people, automatically preclude any cooperation… well, I’m sure you agree that’s madness. The same must apply on a larger scale.”

Maedhros smiled bitterly. 

“Maybe,” he said. “But I ask you this. Have you ever tried to organize large groups of people? It is, also, inherently madness.”

Varys smiled back like he’d won something, and dread settled like a stone in Maedhros’s stomach.

“That is why I have come to you, my lord.”

He could hear his heart thump loudly, but the sound quickly faded. Slowly, Maedhros curled his hand on the table— the one that always felt a little like it was made of a different material from the rest of him— into a fist, and let out a deep breath. “Are you going to make me ask why, Lord Varys?” Maedhros replied, and Varys smirked. The man did like his games. He would enjoy Maglor a good deal, when Maglor was in one of his good moods.

“I must admit to keeping my eyes and ears on you for a long time, Lord Maedhros,” Varys said. “For my own pleasure, as much as anything. You are a fascinating man; learned, skilled, well-traveled, well-liked. You have made friends all across the Seven Kingdoms, and even toured certain parts of Essos, leaving open requests for your return and glowing compliments in your wake. There is a vault in your name within the Iron Bank, and your credit is allegedly the envy of many. You are the hero of Seaguard, a proven warrior after the Greyjoy rebellion, and beloved by your bannermen, despite so much time spent abroad from the Riverlands. You’ve received countless offers of betrothal, and other tokens of alliance, yet accepted none while retaining the offerers’ goodwill. Odder still, you choose to have your only squire to date be your goodbrother’s bastard nephew, and by all accounts your dearest friend is a titleless bard. Don’t look me in the eye and tell me you are a man who doesn’t believe in maintaining balance among disparate factions, Lord Maedhros. It is an insult to us both.”

“Why are you here?” Maedhros breathed out, and from another man it might have sounded weak or frightened or confused. Maedhros’s words just came across like a warning. Varys didn’t even react.

“I will be frank. I come to you tonight because I don’t have all the answers. There are anomalies I don’t understand, assumptions I cannot begin to make, and far too many variables. But from what I do know, you have spent almost your entire life building for something, gaining knowledge, experience, resources, and allies. I’d almost accuse you of being a Stark, your preparations for hard times are so fastidious. But the truly intriguing matter, what sets you apart from other men, Lord Maedhros, are your friends. The true ones, who you don’t smile towards or give pretty words. They are gathered from all across the seven kingdoms, and such odd choices too. 

“The Dornish Bard that Olenna and Doran share custody of, and Celegorm Snow the Bastard Knight are the obvious ones. But there’s also your nephews, the odd Arryn twins who are too smart for their own good and speak to you more through letters than to their own parents aloud. Caranthir Lannister was to harder to find; you’ve never actually met him, have you? But he doesn’t write to many people, and the Grand Maester is very greedy for—ahem, _romantic_ gossip. Imagine his surprise when, instead of finding a torrid love letter, his messages to ‘Nelyo’ were coded. Or, what seemed to be code. Did you know that the Arryn twins speak the same nonsensical, secret language as Ser Caranthir and Prince Curufin? I must admit, I’ve not been able to identify it, to my shame.

“The most difficult friend to understand, though, was the prince. Not in purpose. Anybody would want a crown prince as part of their cabal. But Prince Curufin didn’t have the same strangeness, the wisdom, of the other children you’ve associated with. I assumed you were having Caranthir Lannister recruit him, which was annoying. Because I wondered, still wonder, how could you get under the skin of children? But then a change came about the prince just few months ago. I know you are familiar with the shattered slabs of obsidian in front of the Red Keep’s smithy, because I do believe you attended Blackfyre’s funeral. When Prince Curufin began visiting Feanor Blackfyre’s ruin of a tomb, I knew he had joined your cause.

“Still, even I might not have noticed all the ‘coincidental’ acquaintances and goings on, I might have not realised something was amiss. But all of you carry the same sigil on your person; Feanor Blackfyre’s eight pointed star. It is a small slip, but I must inform you it’s also rather amateur. It doesn’t erase all the work you’ve done, though, Maedhros Tully. So I have to wonder… what is the purpose of your… ‘Brotherhood of Feanor’?”

Maedhros almost laughed. He knew he smiled, and the breath he let out when he threw his head back was too high and ragged to be normal. But he didn’t quite break down. No one would call his expression mirthful.

He’d known it was dangerous when he commissioned the sword. Everyday, he woke up and told himself not to carry the bloody weapon, to cover the mark on the hilt, to just get a new one. He would hiss _this is illogical, this is sentimental, it’s not yours, it’s not yours, it’s not your sigil!_ And the weapon would already be strapped to his belt. Because… there was no because. Put simply, it was just that Feanor’s sigil had been carved into Maedhros’s very soul by Russandol, and a part of him always felt incomplete without wearing it on his person. 

Maedhros had been relieved to know— through Maglor’s necklace, Celegorm’s sigil, Amras and Amrod’s self-made leather bracelets— that his brothers felt the same. Curufin and Caranthir, as well, apparently. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if their… not sentimentality, because he’d already overused that excuse away… Elven influences? Transferred trauma? Codependence? Compulsive loyalty? Well… whatever it was, he wondered if _that_ would kill them all.

There was some poetic justice in the fact that their accessories might have doomed them a second time.

“Don’t stop now, Lord Varys,” Maedhros said quietly, just the barest hint of amusement tingeing his tone as he stared at the ceiling. “Present me your evidence for this ‘brotherhood’ of mine. Because right now you accuse me of talking to my nephews, being friends with bastards, and writing in code to a young man you admit I don’t even know. And, yes, as you’ve said, why would I associate with children and adolescents?”

“Evidence? Besides what I’ve told you I’m afraid it is sparse. Do you deny what I’ve postulated?”

“No.” 

Caranthir would be apoplectic when he heard of this, of that Maedhros was sure. In his letters, Caranthir had told him to be careful of the Spider over and over again, stressing how precarious all of their positions could become should their relationships be found out. Already, there were those in Caranthir’s life looking to defame and erase him, already the divide in the royal household put Curufin in a precarious position, already Maglor feared that his people would declare war on the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Their loyalties were stretched thin now. Exposing any more would fray what little trust the once and future sons of Feanor were still given by their families.

But Varys… Maedhros hoped his suspicions were correct. 

“But surely,” Maedhros continued, sitting straight again in order to pin Varys with his gaze, “you think I have certain intentions. What are they, or, at least, your assumptions? Because, again, all you accuse me of at present is having an odd circle of correspondents.”

Varys shifted minutely, perhaps rolling his shoulders, and his mouth twitched. Maedhros wouldn’t call it a smile, but that was the closest approximation that expression could be called.

“Ah,” Varys murmured with exasperated politeness. “Yes, I suppose that is so. And you are right, I do have assumptions. It is the folly of men, after all, to constantly be drawing conclusions. We can’t stop the part of our minds that is always forming impressions and unconsciously filling in the holes in our knowledge with unfounded guesses. A folly which had lead many to ruin. It is in our capacity to halt before speaking or believing these assumptions, though. I, especially, do not like to comment on art before I can see the whole piece, you must understand. To speak my guesses now would serve no purpose but to amuse you. So you see, Lord Maedhros, I was hoping you would enlighten me without such games. I have always considered you to be highly… reasonable.”

_Well, I suppose that’s better than honourable._

Maedhros smiled. 

“Honestly, Lord Varys, I’m flattered, and at this point I am actually, truly sorry to disappoint you. There is no scheme. No purpose. I have no plan to overthrow the Iron Throne, or to gain any position of power. If the gods are good, my lord father will live for many years yet, and I can continue to travel, making plans for the day when the gods aren’t good. I do prepare, fastidiously, for when I must be Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and I want to have the connections and resources to do as well in that position as possible. 

“As for this… Brotherhood of Feanor…” Maedhros’s smile perhaps grew a little bigger, “Well, I suppose you can say the aim is in the title you’ve given us. Our goal is brotherhood. Companionship. I was very affected by the Ser Blackfyre’s funeral, as you’ve already surmised. I’ve studied the man since then, and found him… _admirable_ , let’s say. I taught those admirable qualities to my squire and nephews, yes. But as for, what was the word you used? Recruitment? Caranthir and Maglor reached out to me. They were drawn to the story of the Prince of Dragonflies’s son all on their own. If Ser Caranthir has interested his cousin in Feanor Blackfyre, I had nothing to do with it. I promise you, I don’t have any nefarious schemes set for children.”

Varys’s face didn’t crack for an instant. Maedhros took one long breath before taking his shot.

“All that being said, I am a ‘reasonable’ man,” he said, slowly letting any amusement drain from his face and posture. Varys noticed. “I’m not above asking my friends for favours. At present, I have nothing to ask of my _brotherhood_ , but the signs of strife are growing, in that you are correct. Which, of course, is why I imagine you’re really here.”

Varys nodded.

Maedhros’s voice turned grave, and severe as the point on a blade. “You have been frank with me, so I will be very honest with you. I don’t like to see my loved ones put in difficult positions. I despair in response to their grief, and I will do everything in my power to stop that. I have friends from across the Seven Kingdoms, as you’ve so elegantly demonstrated. There is nothing for me to gain in allowing the fracture of the realm; only tears and blood to be shed. Conversely, through maintaining my diverse relationships and healing the self-inflicted wounds of Seven Kingdoms, I have peace of mind to gain. And peace of mind… is the most precious gift I could possibly have.”

 _Which is why it will never come to you._ He ignored Russandol’s whispers.

Maedhros and Varys considered one another for several moments; much longer than would be comfortable for someone who didn’t remember hanging from a cliff for literal years in excruciating detail. Eventually though, Lord Varys smiled. Then he stood.

“I think I lied,” Varys said, as he pushed in his chair. “You are not a reasonable man, Maedhros Tully.”

“Then what manner of man am I?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I do believe, and forgive my early assumption here, it is a good one. Good night, Lord Maedhros. I hope this evening has been as pleasant for you as it has been for me.”

Maedhros smiled, and it was a little wan, but relief still loosened the knot in his stomach. “It depends how we’re defining ‘pleasant’, Lord Varys. I would say interesting, though, if that offers you any comfort.”

Varys giggled, and made for the door, but paused before opening it all the way. “I’m sorry to keep you any longer, but I do have one more question, if you’d oblige me.”

 _If the door’s open…_ “Naturally.”

“Why Feanor Blackfyre?” 

Maedhros blinked, and then he shrugged. A slow grin, lazy and pleasant and guileless, came to his face. “Again, I must disappoint you. It’s all rather academic, though I suppose you can say it also stems from the romantic dreams of young boys. A man who should have been king; a famous knight who fought one famous battle; he who forged a Valyrian steel link, but never finished his Maester’s chain. It leaves a lot of room for interpretation and inspiration. I suppose we gravitated to the symbol for what we could make it mean, rather than what Feanor didn’t accomplish.”

“Interesting,” Varys said, seeming to chew on the word. There was something slimy in his tone; smug, the way his voice hadn’t been all night, and Maedhros gave a sudden shudder. Dread curled up his spin as Varys continued. “If it is so banal, I wonder why the mere mention of his name sent Maglor Sand scurrying to Essos without plan or hope or resource. Oh well. Farewell, Lord Maedhros.”

The door closed with a thud, and Maedhros sat frozen in his chair. He was all at once overcome with the feeling that a crucial battle had been lost.

From the recesses of his heart, behind the wall of scar tissue and journals and duties and ice, Russandol was laughing at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, very, really sorry this took so much longer than usual. But in my defense! I was always planning on one chapter a month being my schedule! Okay, no excuses, it just took me forever to figure out Mae's inner conflict so it came out really stilted the first time I wrote it. This is the re-written version and it's a fair bit better. Still Maedhros is the most frustrating Feanorion to write to date, and that's saying something considering Maglor and I are still having issues. The good news is that this is (almost) 1/3 of this fic! How wild!
> 
> In other news, Baelish being his swarmy self is actually really fun to write. Do you think he's a cool character or just flat hate him? I switch, depends on how big a creep he's being to Sansa. But I imagine y'all care more about Varys than Baelish and Cat, and for good reason. What's that spider up to? How are the boys going to circumvent being really found out (or should they even try?)? Is Mae ever getting to Dragonstone? The plot chickens.
> 
> We're swinging back around to Celegorm next chapter! There's a house call to be made at the Reeds' place, ;).


	6. Celegorm II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reeds know many things, Celegorm knows some things, and Jon Snow knows nothing. And yet all of them are just men chasing shadows on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiiiivvveeee comma splices! Four run-on sentences, three misspelled elven names, two subject verb disagreements, and a beta named she_who_recs! She is the true Christmas (and all year-round) gift.

It was always cold in the North, according to southerners, but Celegorm had never really appreciated how true that was until recently. The North was home, and he’d grown up in the winter-like weather. Though Celegorm did not remember the true winter well– despite how he teased his little cousins about how old and worldly he was– and the memories of his youth were more imagination than actual recollection, the physical sensations of that time lingered. His earliest memories all revolved around cold so penetrating it clung to your bones, and being more charmed by not seeing his breath. Celegorm was delighted by grass and flowers, not snows or icicles. He was surprised by being able to shed his layers of leathers and furs when below the Neck. His tolerance for heat was much less than Maglor Sand’s, but he also didn’t shiver every time a stray sea breeze rolled in from the Bay of Ice.

But something seemed to have changed. He’d stood in a thousand rivers, swam in icy streams on occasion, and mocked many for their susceptibility to the cold; for their stupidity that got them tossed into the water in the first place. But there he stood, so shocked by the summer temperature of the water in the Neck that he couldn’t climb out. 

Jon was mocking him. Lady and Huan were barking alongside the boy’s laughter and Celegorm couldn’t even be annoyed because he was too busy shivering and berating himself. 

_What are you, some child? Of course that branch wouldn’t hold your weight!_

But he hadn’t realised it at the time. Instead, Celegorm had casually vaulted himself onto a thin and decaying log, hoping to walk across the creek. Jon warned him. Jon knew better and called out that the branch was little more than a stick and would never hold a grown man. Celegorm didn’t listen. Why should he have? 

He and his friends crossed smaller and lighter paths all the time!

Celegorm hadn’t taken two steps when it broke.

Of course it broke. A branch would never hold the weight of a grown _Man_. Naturally the temperature of a Northern creek bothered the susceptible body of a _Man_. It was common sense that this entire scheme was foolish for a _Man_ to enact.

Celegorm climbed up onto the bank feeling sick, and it had everything and nothing to do with the cold affecting his system. 

He hadn’t realised just how deeply those Elven memories had snuck in his subconscious. 

Jon took pity on him after only a little ribbing, fetching Celegorm some dry trousers and lending him some socks. His boots were soaked through, and filled to the brim with water. It would take days for them to dry off, and they were the only pair Celegorm travelled with. He would just have to walk in them, and ruin the leather in the process. Joy.

Instead of taking Jon’s suggestion to build a fire and camp for the night, Celegorm decided they would carry on towards Greywater Watch. 

One couldn’t go to the seat of House Reed, merely towards. A poor traveller’s only hope was that one of the crannogmen would find you stumbling amid the bogs and take pity before you inevitably drowned. They usually approached Celegorm quickly enough, as they were fonder of somewhat capable Northmen. But with the show he was currently putting on, the crannogmen were probably holding off approaching them to laugh. 

As the Snows trudged along, leading their wolves and horses by hand, Celegorm mused that the bog dwellers were a bit like the Laiquendi that way, and in many of their other customs. Reclusive and slightly migratory, they were peoples who kept themselves close to nature. They were hardy and wily and many called them ‘simple’. 

“Maybe,” Tyelkormo had always replied, smile a bit vicious and a warning in his eyes, “But simple things are harder to destroy.” It was a culture Celegorm had admired in both lives. Perhaps that was why he was always drawn to loiter in the Neck during his months in between facing his family and forcing himself south to make some money. He liked the crannogmen because he’d always gotten along with the Nandor; at least, the ones who didn’t follow Thingol.

Despite being so drawn to that way of life though, Celegorm had never been able to fully embrace it. Perhaps he was just too Noldorin. 

The Laiquendi and crannogmen did not build great castles or toil away hours on pretty, worthless things, and he admired those parts of them. His people had burned themselves to the ground with their ambitions and priorities and their glory. And Celegorm had scoffed; bit out nasty things at his brothers and sneered at Finrod’s beautiful, hidden city even while living there.

What’s the point? he had asked his father while they toiled away at jewelry. Little Tyelkormo had wanted to be attending to the pregnant mare. 

And yet, when he would escape Nargothrond to go spend months in Ossiriand under the guise of visiting Caranthir, Celegorm never stayed.

Because he would look his Nandorin friends in the eye and ask them, what’s the point? Those peoples never changed. The Noldor innovated for innovation's sake, and it was exhausting for Celegorm to keep up, but it couldn’t compare to the frustration of trying to tread water in the Green Elves’ stagnation. No matter how many times the Laiquendi were forced from their homes by Morgoth, they changed nothing about their situation. They didn’t modernize their arms, they didn’t fortify their tree homes, and they didn’t find a new leader. It was as if they were content to lose and lose and never replace it with anything as long as they could maintain just a little of themselves. The Noldor were the opposite. They didn’t know how to cut their losses.

Absently, Celegorm toyed with a strand of silver hair and- not for the first time- mused that he should have been born a Sinda. They seemed to have struck a good medium.

A spot of precarious moss he’d been expecting to glide over easily gave way beneath his foot, and Celegorm was drawn back into his Mannish body, far away from the Laiquendi, Noldor, and Sindar. 

_Fucking hell._

Celegorm was a northman with the blood of the First Men in his veins, so he fished his foot with his already ruined boot and Jon’s newly ruined sock out of the bog and kept walking. It squished with every step. 

He paid special attention to keeping his mind firmly rooted in Westeros and his body conscious of its own weight. Celegorm fought the chill, and carried his pack, and weathered the hunger clawing in his stomach. He also tried to ignore how the harsh ground tore at his feet through his compromised shoes, when such things would never bother an Elf. But Celegorm kept walking. He’d survived twenty years as a Man. _I can at least manage twenty more hours._

Eventually, they came to the one landmark in the swamp that Celegorm always knew how to find. It was a heart tree. This was where they would wait until the crannogmen approached them.

There were many heart trees scattered around the swamplands of the Neck, sequestered in places other than godswoods. The eldest Greengood boy once told Celegorm it was because the land moved too much. The godswoods would move and shift, and sometimes they would disappear for decades. Greywater Watch had a godswood with a heart tree that remained with the keep, but for the other drifting folk of the Neck a different solution needed to be found. So, they planted weirwoods on some of the most anchored spots of their lands. Then they used them as places of worship, but also as beacons and markers. It was a rather effective system for people who knew where to look, despite how some didn’t care for the tradition. 

Celegorm knew several devout northmen who would be upset that a heart tree wasn’t nestled in a godswood, including Jon. The boy approached the heart tree warily, and his eyes shifted uncomfortably around them. Celegorm could guess the conclusion Jon was drawing, it was the same one many of the crannogmen professed: because of the placement of the heart trees, this entire bog was the old gods’ domain. 

The crannogmen were rather pious like that. 

The thought came to him unbidden and undesired as Celegorm settled at the foot of the heart tree to wait. But once he sank his teeth into the idea that the importance of worship was biggest difference between the people of the Neck and the Laiquendi, he couldn’t stop from tearing into it and all the memories. Celegorm just couldn’t tell if the religious matter made him feel better or not, and that unsatisfactory sensation couldn’t stand. He slumped down to the marshy ground, and tried to fight through the too vivid memories impartially.

He didn’t succeed.

The Green Elves could only be matched in their irreverence for the Valar by the Avari and Celegorm’s family, of that he was certain. They spoke of Yavanna and Varda as if the Valar were distant relatives, ones you only barely knew and had the barest passing interest in.

As one who had met and forsook and was sundered from the Valar, the comparison should have made Celegorm even more comfortable around the Nandor. It had not. 

There had been a streak of piety in Nerdanel, one that was quiet and private but unbreakable. She’d managed to successfully pass that subtle reverence down to only one of her sons, but Celegorm always loved fantastic stories and forbidden powers. He was drawn the Valar’s light, their pure, natural beauty, and Celegorm went seeking. While Atar was stonily congratulatory and wary of his acceptance into Oromë’s service, Amil had burst with pride.

Then Grandfather was dead, and assistance from their patrons was denied to them, and Celegorm had wept. And Atar cupped his devout son’s face and gazed at him with pity. “I’m sorry,” Father had whispered, while running a hand through Celegorm’s hair and past the braids that signified his position as a Hunter of Oromë. “I’m so sorry you had to learn like this.”

Tylekormo had gone personally to resign from Lord Oromë’s service, which he only just managed to choke out while on his knees and not quite able to cry. His lord had understood, though. Better than any of the other Valar could even imagine, Lord Oromë felt the Elves’ plight, empathized with their helplessness and need to act. He understood why Tyelkormo and his family could not be trapped in Aman any longer. Not when the enemy called, not when war had gone to them first. Lord Oromë simply told Celegorm to rise and released his vows without fuss or reprimand. He allowed Huan to follow Celegorm east, when the call of the war against the Dark One was too much for the Maia to ignore. He wished Celegorm well, and warned him to not, “listen to the dark whispers on the north wind.”

Celegorm hadn’t been able to follow his lord’s last order, but he hadn’t been listening by then anyway. 

Nonetheless, even as his kin– but not his friends, because they were almost all devout Hunters as well and thus all stayed behind– cursed the Valar while in Beleriand, he could not listen. It made him sick, because the sting of that betrayal was deep and raw and he wished it wasn’t there. He flinched every time the Valar were insulted or dismissed, and anger would bubble up. _Weak_ , he used to call himself when the desire to pray for straight shots and plentiful game came upon him, _Father tried to tell you and he was right and the proof is there. Yet, you still desire their protection. You still ache to be tied down like a loyal dog at their heels. Weak and stunted and you will die in the winter if you keep on like this._

And despite his warning to himself, Tyelkormo still chased at the heels of Luthien and her Maia blood the first chance he was given. Because she was beautiful and powerful and the natural world clung to her. He was obsessive. He was foolish. Then Celegorm paid dearly for his belief and weakness, and suddenly all that devoutness evaporated. The piety, and everything else warm within him.

Maybe that was why Celegorm Snow never put much stock in the value of the old gods or praying before a heart tree or the sanctity of a godswood. Celegorm had woken up cursed.

Slowly, he became aware of Huan’s head on his hand, and the grimace Celegorm hadn’t even noticed slid off his face. His friend nestled against his abdomen, and Celegorm ran his fingers through Huan’s fur before taking a deep breath. 

This Elven memories thing wasn’t getting easier. He’d hoped it would, but it wasn’t. Every time Celegorm solved an internal conflict, put a nightmare or a doubt behind him, another arose. This was so much harder than being a bastard. Being a bastard was a boulder in his path that Celegorm had known he could never break down, but this endless cycle of solving one problem just to come upon another was exhausting.

He wrapped his arms around Huan’s neck, and rubbed his cheek against that still-soft puppy fur. At least he wasn’t alone. 

They waited for an hour, Jon and Celegorm each in their own exhausted contemplation. Huan sat nearly on top of Celegorm, and Ghost was curled faithfully at Jon’s side, but Lady lay between them, despondent. She made pitiful little noises, and Huan eventually abandoned his vigil of Celegorm’s lap to comfort his sister. Poor Lady; poor, obedient Lady missed her mistress so very much. She howled and could not find the energy to travel sometimes and ate so little. In his heart he feared that Sansa was much the same, many miles away.

A creeping suspicion was beginning to come upon Celegorm about the direwolves and his cousins. At first he had assumed that the deep bond between him and Huan was the result of their past lives, but now… 

Celegorm hoped that Nymeria, wherever she roamed, was managing just a little better than Lady. Nymeria didn’t have her pack to watch after her, not like Arya would.

Across from them and tied to the trees, the horses tried to graze through the bog grass, but found their food source scarce. Celegorm’s steed, Gelly, and Jon’s borrowed Copper had not cared for this terrain in the slightest. Horses never did, which was why most parties travelling through the Neck stuck as closely to the Kingsroad as possible. Celegorm just counted them lucky that they hadn’t encountered a lizard-lion yet. Those things were known to eat horses. And people. 

All the same, he hoped the Reeds kept a well-maintained stable in the horseless swamp. 

As the sun started to dip beneath the horizon, a pair of short men peeled away from the trees. The had craggy faces and filthy clothes and greasy hair; one of the men was around Uncle Ned’s age and the taller one looked a bit older than Jon. They didn’t say anything as they walked up, but their spears glinted with purpose. 

Celegorm lumbered to his feet inelegantly, but with slow and steady movements. It was more of a lazy gesture than one of caution. Jon ruined the effect of that confidence somewhat, though, with his typically serious enthusiasm. 

The boy scrambled to his feet, and while he thankfully didn’t go for his sword, Jon did try to thrust his shoulders back menacingly. Celegorm had to fight a smile at the sight. One day, Jon might stand as strong, proud, and tall as Uncle Ned. But for now his face hadn’t quite grown into his adult features, he was ungracefully gangly, and he was on the verge of a growth-spurt that hadn’t quite come. Not even his grown hound-sized wolf lent him much weight.

Jon stood too close to his cousin to look at all independent and capable.

When Celegorm turned back to the crannogmen, he met the older man’s eyes and they exchanged a small look. Exasperation and fondness mingled on the man’s face as he glanced at his own boy, who was holding the spear too tightly. _Ah_ , Celegorm thought, _the earnestness of youth_. He grinned.

“Greetings!” Celegorm called, “Forgive us for taking up your time, and our haggard manners. We’ve not had the easiest time of it.” The youth snorted contemptuously, but man just nodded, even if he looked faintly amused. 

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, with his strong accent that wasn’t quite Northern but certainly not a Riverlander’s inflection. “You obviously know enough to make your way to sanctuary. I’m called Amos, and this is my boy, Wulfran. And you? Northmen, I suppose.”

“We are; making our way home, but hoping to call on your lord on our way there. Celegorm and Jon Snow, at your service and seeking the hospitality of Howland Reed at the request of our kinsman, Lord Eddard Stark.”

Wulfran made a noise, even as his elder shot him a reprimanding look. After silencing the boy, Amos looked Celegorm up and down with a critical gaze. Celegorm remained lax and still.

“I see. I’ve heard of a Celegorm Snow, I believe,” Amos said at length. “Not notorious, but known around these parts. Well liked, you are. And well disliked, by some.” 

Celegorm chucked, perhaps a little darkly, because Jon sent him a look. He said, “Well, people do tend to dislike you when you humiliate them and take their stuff. If you’re good at anything you’re going to make enemies. I happen to be a crackshot and a gambling man, on occasion. The ones who like me tend to be more gracious losers than the others.”

“Arrogant, too. Good to know.” 

Celegorm laughed. 

“You seem like the harmless sort,” Amos continued, “but you understand that I can’t just take you to Lord Howland, saying you come on Stark’s behalf without proof. And while it says you have a head on your shoulders that you aren’t trouncing through here in those awful lumps of metal, you don’t look like the outsiders’ normal people.”

Celegorm nodded, and elected to not mention that his armour was nicely packed in Gelly’s carry bags. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his tunic to pull out some parchment. “I’ve got a letter to Lord Howland with Lord Stark’s seal on it, if you want it,” he said, holding out but not relinquishing the message. Amos leaned over and studied the wax direwolf, before turning his gaze to the actual wolves scattered around Celegorm’s heels. Most others would have been intimidated and amazed by even the small creatures, but not the crannogmen. Strange things lurked in the bogs. The Northern stories felt like they could truly exist in this domain.

_Northern stories… magic. Dammit. That’s another thing to deal with now. Well done, Snow, you great fool._

Celegorm’s mouth twisted with just a little bit of angry impatience that had nothing to do with Amos or the verifying of his identity. He was able to wipe the expression away by burying his hand in Huan’s fur, though, his ever-present friend already nestled far too close to his Celegorm’s hips. He mustered up enough cheer to look affable just in time to catch Amos’s nod of approval. 

“Suppose that will have to do. To Greywater Watch, then. Come along Northmen, and lead your horses carefully. Great, clumsy beasts will get you killed if you aren’t careful. We still have a bit of a trek to go.” 

“What do you say, Jon?” Celegorm called over his shoulder to where his ever dutiful squire was already untying the horses. “Think we still have it in us for a trek?”

Jon, his face defensive and eyes tired, just snorted as he drew closer. “I’ve gone hunting with you. I think I can last a little bit longer.”

“You don’t know the meaning of tired yet, boy,” Celegorm crowed, and, as he took Gelly’s reins, he also threw his other arm over Jon’s shoulders. He turned his attention back to Amos and gave the man a nod. They started walking. “When we get back North, I’m going to run you ragged. We’re gonna try jousting. You’ve never jousted, it’ll be fun. And Maester Luwin is going to be kept busy with your bruises. Robb and Theon’s too. All you brats need a lesson.”

“Theon is your age.”

“And yet!”

Jon snorted again, but this time it was more a laugh than pretence of bravado. “Greyjoy is immature. A real tosser,” Jon said, the petty joy from insulting his bully plain on his face. Celegorm raised an eyebrow.

“Probably because he’s always spending his time with you lot of youngsters. Don’t worry, Theon’s day will come and he’ll be all right. Just like you. But you both need to get slapped around a bit more, eat some of that pride and some dirt! Maedhros ran me hard from day one, kicked my arse from Winterfell to Riverrun. There was no travel respite, not like I’m giving you! Actually…” 

Jon’s eyes widened in fear. Truely, the worst and best thing about having Jon as a squire was that his cousin knew all of Celegorm’s tricks. He anticipated training regimens and knew which orders could be argued, and Jon didn’t give Celegorm a lick of respect. There was no reverence, no stringent propriety from Jon Snow to his fellow bastard. While his fear was fun, it also meant that Celegorm couldn’t surprise Jon, or get him to do anything too embarrassing.

But that was the trade off, because Celegorm would never sacrifice their casual relationship. There had never been anyone else that Jon could love besides Celegorm without the choking chains of status placing limits. Not even with Robb and Arya.

Jon didn’t have any friends. No bastards in Winterfell did. 

“Master Amos!” Celegorm called, catching the man’s bemused attention. The crannogman seemed to regard Celegorm as an oddity, an exhibit of a rare creature. The people of the Neck were usually quick to adopt those who could mimic their way and were steadfast to those who earned their respect. Celegorm, as something of a minor celebrity among the bogs and marshes, would be someone considered a ‘potential comrade’. He need only continue to amuse and impress to earn Amos’s regard.

That high reputation was invigorating.

“My squire and I might be guests of Greywater Watch for a few weeks. Our horses need time to recover, and one of the direwolves is ill. Rest will do her good. Not to mention my business with Lord Reed. But you see, I have a squire to keep busy in the meantime. Do you know of any tasks that could use an extra hand, or any young men who’d be willing to teach the boy a little about your archery or spears? I’ve found both skills invaluable, and I see no reason to be idle when Jon can be educated and put to work.”

“You’ll not find much like that at Greywater,” Wulfran scoffed before his father could reply.

“Of course not,” Celegorm said. “But in the villages around here…” The question hung in the air. Amos shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the Snows, just the barest hint of a smirk gracing his lips. 

“I’ll talk to Lord Howland, but I’m sure I and Wulfran can find use of your lad.”

Jon did an admirable job of hiding his groan of dismay, but it was for naught. He was tucked too firmly against Celegorm’s side to hide much of anything. Which was truly a hindrance, as their feet kept tripping over roots and getting tangled.

But instead of letting go, Celegorm just tightened his grip and focused on his small victory; as well as the plan going forward. Jon had now been successfully occupied, for a little while. At least the boy wouldn’t be tripping underfoot while Celegorm tried to talk to Lord Reed. He wasn’t sure he wanted Jon to hear what was to be said, despite how Celegorm had rallied under Jon’s cause. Not after Uncle Ned’s evasiveness.

_‘Up to your discretion.’_

No, he did not like the sound of that at all. ‘Up to your discretion’ was the kind of thing Maedhros would say right before he let Celegorm go off to make bad choices. It was what people said when they knew the good answer, but wanted you to figure it out yourself. 

This whole setup made Celegorm wary.

Why should Howland Reed know anything about Jon’s mother? 

Celegorm was not one to dwell on possibilities, but the implication could still make him shudder. There was something afoot; or at least it felt probable. _Others take me. All I wanted was for Uncle to fess up to which lady he was protecting._

Because it had never once crossed Celegorm’s mind that Eddard Stark hid his bastard’s mother out of shame or personal concern. It would have been her. Always her needs, and Celegorm was perfectly willing to place Jon above whatever she wanted. 

_‘Up to your discretion’. Fuck._

Greywater Watch looked like a precarious nightmare of wood and stone and mud. It stood high and wet, with seemingly-ramshackle towers. The ‘ground’ it rested on swayed and bobbed with the water, and there would be no way to get across but on rafts. Quite frankly, if Celegorm had spent less time in talans he’d be quaking in his boots at the prospect of sleeping in one of those rooms. Jon, who had hardly slept anywhere but squat, sturdy Winterfell until a few months ago, looked just slightly ill. 

The crannogmen were laughing at them. Celegorm could feel it.

Taking the horses to the floating keep on the pole-raft proved stressful and difficult. On more than one occasion Celegorm was certain the poor creatures were going to tumble off and drown. The direwolves, especially Lady– who wasn’t quiet like Ghost or mature like Huan– helped nothing, and just further agitated the horses and the horse-wary crannogmen. In the end, though, the only one who ended up in the water was Celegorm, who backed up too far when Copper reared. 

Only Huan tried to pull him to safety. Jon and Wulfran were too busy bonding over the knight’s misfortune to help, while Amos feigned business with handling Copper. They were all giggling at his soaked clothes, muddy hair, and disgruntled countenance. 

Celegorm was so disconcerted by his dip that he didn’t even wait around to be greeted by Lord Reed when they finally arrived. He just stomped off to find a bath. 

The Reeds proved accommodating to Celegorm’s rudeness, though. They provided rooms, baths, care for the horses, no questions about the direwolves or restrictions on them, and a late summons to dinner, all without seeing their guests. As servants came with clean if too small clothes, Celegorm was ever grateful that the crannogmen didn’t stand much on ceremony. He was also grateful that the pocket at his breast was well-treated with animal fat and kept dry. He wouldn’t know what to do if Uncle Ned’s letter was destroyed.

The evening was getting late when Celegorm found Jon again. They were housed in the guest chambers, and they had been given separate rooms down the hall from one another in which the wolves still lounged. Jon and Celegorm slid a glance at each other as they walked down to supper, and Jon looked positively disturbed. Rightly so, as this was not the hospitality given to hedge knights or bastards. They were being treated like Lord Stark’s trueborn kin. 

They walked slowly, and Celegorm tried to remember all his manners. It was getting harder to remember how to be deferential. For one second, remembering he had been a prince was shocking to Celegorm, before he thought, _yes, naturally_. That was a dangerous mindset, though, and Celegorm knew his already reckless behavior could easily become more so with this kind of treatment. 

So he made sure to bow low when they were announced in the dining hall and were presented to Lord Reed. Surrounded by the tiny crannogmen, Celegorm tried to be small, and he averted his eyes. There were two children, the girl around Jon’s age and the boy about Arya’s maybe, and a stout lady next to Lord Reed. The girl regarded them politely, but the little Reed was… staring. Openly and with the faintest look of surprise. 

Celegorm met the Reed heir’s eyes carefully, noticing how the boy’s fingers clenched and released, and how his eyebrows twitched. The child’s eyes widened for a second when he met Celegorm’s gaze, then he swiftly looked over to Jon. His face was a muted picture of distress. 

“Greetings,” Lord Reed proclaimed quietly, drawing Celegorm’s attention back toward Uncle Ned’s dear friend. “It is our pleasure to host you here, Sers, and to hear of Lord Eddard. Welcome, and I hope your journey hasn’t been too difficult.”

All eyes turned to Celegorm, and he took a breath. “Pleasant greetings to you and your family as well, milord,” Celegorm said, trying to not sound too loud. His voice echoed all the same, though, because the hall was large and silent but for the creaking of wood. “We are thankful to you for hosting us, deeply… thankful. And to your men, who guided us. Lord Stark is thankful, as well, to you. For hosting us. He’s always told us children of his brave friend and companion, Lord Reed, and sends his greetings. He’s asked… Well, Lord Stark wanted me to give you a letter, and then… After that I believe it’s up to our discretion, milord. But I don’t know what that means.”

Lord Reed raised an eyebrow and Celegorm felt like a fool; a stuttering fool, the likes of which finery and crown could never cure. He decided to just hold out Uncle Ned’s letter and look away. Reed took the parchment with no fuss or judgement. He nodded.

“I see. Does this matter require immediate attention, or should you sup first?”

“I… No. It doesn’t. I don’t think so, it was sort of a– Mmmm. No. Sorry.”

Lord Reed simply nodded again, face not even showing pity. As if knights were normally so rambly, and bastards were always allowed generous hospitality in his home. Maybe they were. The Neck was an odd place.

“Then we will eat and rest, and you and I will reconvene at dawn to discuss whatever it is Lord Eddard wants done. Please,” Lord Reed said, turning to look towards the other Reeds, “Let me introduce my family. This is my wife, Jyana.” She gave a firm nod, rather than a curtsey, but she smiled kindly at them. “My eldest child, Meera.” Meera followed her mother’s example. “And my son, Jojen–”

“You aren’t supposed to be here.”

The boy had straightened the second attention was placed on him, and his words rang with the same soft power of his father. Everyone in the room quieted to hear him and gave the boy their attention. Most parents would silence an out-of-turn child immediately, but Lord Reed and Lady Jyana merely crossed looks and waited to see what their son would say. That was probably because Jojen Reed, as he stared at Celegorm and Jon Snow with unnaturally green eyes, looked less like an interrupting child, and more like a wise sage. 

Trapped by that surprisingly ancient gaze, Celegorm was seized with the sudden, irrational desire to cup his ears. _‘You are not supposed to be here’, no, I’m not. But what can you see?_ Panic gripped at his heart, and Celegorm could only think of the old stories, of the rumours that crannogmen were descended from the Children of the Forest. For the first time, Celegorm wondered what a Child of the Forest _was_. 

They were old. That he knew, that they were old and wise and knew of the ancient ways better than any of the First Men. The Children of the Forest might be so old… Why, they just might have been the Firstborn. 

Celegorm wondered if Luthien’s peredhel boy– when he wasn’t bleeding and yelling and distracted by the wrath of Feanor’s line– had eyes like Jojen Reed. Or Artanis! His cousin could look into a person’s very spirit, and Finrod often claimed she had learned how to read a person’s fate from Melian. If she were to marry a Man, could her line have maintained her insight? Would her beautiful hair and Noldorin grey eyes have faded while her mind remained with them?

For the briefest of moments, Celegorm wondered how long they has been in the Void.

And then Jojen Reed pinpointed his stare at Jon, and Celegorm could breathe again.

As Celegorm gasped, Jojen Reed continued his proclamation. He said, softly and with great certainty, “You… White wolf! You are not supposed to be here. I’ve dreamed of you, of where the Three-Eyed Raven wants you. You are meant to stand atop a kingdom of ice, looking… gazing beyond the wars of men. At the great evil that walks south. I dreamed of it just last night! And a dozen times before, you aren’t… This is not how the song was supposed to go.”

Celegorm might have found humour in how aghast Jon looked, if his heart wasn’t about to beat out of his chest. Jojen Reed shifted his gaze once more to Celegorm, and the son of Feanor desperately hoped the boy wouldn’t say he was meant to be languishing in everlasting darkness. But at the same time, Celegorm waited for clarity.

Fear gripped his heart in a vice as he met Jojen Reed’s disgustingly green eyes, but his chest heaved in anticipation. _Tell me. Tell me I’m a kinslayer. Tell me I’m vile and forsaken and doomed. Tell me I’m Turkafinwë Tyelkormo of Tirion.Tell me why they’ve done this to us!_ But all the boy said was, “I’ve never dreamed of you.”

He felt like all the blood had been let from his body.

They all stood quietly for a few moments, waiting for Jojen Reed to say more. But he did not, and it was Lady Jyana who broke the precarious spell binding them. She softly muttered, “Meera, take you brother to bed. I’ll be along,” and the girl dashed off with her brother’s wrist in her grip. 

Celegorm, watching the children be sent away, took a half-step forward. His action was halted by a wheeze, though, that might have been a laugh from Lord Reed. “Worry not,” Reed said in the same unflappable and soft tone that was starting to really set Celegorm’s hair on end. “We and the children have already eaten. We were having supper when you arrived; this spread is for you, our guests. Jojen… we will speak to the boy, but he will not be punished. Jojen has the greensight, you see, he dreams of things that have not yet come to pass. But he is still young to carry such a burden, and he doesn’t always know when not to speak of such things. Still, I am sorry to have placed such a burden on you.”

Celegorm could not speak. It was Jon who managed to say, “There is no offense,” but nothing more. 

Lady Jyana excused herself quickly, and the Snows finally sat down to eat. They did so with Lord Reed at the table, but encased in silence. Celegorm did not doubt both Lord Reed and Jon were lost in their thoughts, contemplating what Jojen Reed had said and how much stock to place in his words. But Celegorm thought nothing. He ate like puppet on strings and desperately thrashed within the emptiness of his own thoughts. He was jittery and finished his meal quickly, though unfortunately Jon did not; so Celegorm was forced to sit when his skin itched so badly he want to bang his head against the table. 

The were eventually dismissed, and Lord Reed bid that Celegorm meet him in his office a little past dawn the next day. They quietly said their thanks and quietly said goodnight and quietly retraced their steps to their chambers. When they reached Jon’s door though, Celegorm just slung his arm around his cousin and directed the boy to his own room. Jon followed without fuss, though he took a short detour to collect Ghost. 

The tension bled from them, just a little, as they closed the door to their sanctuary.

“So,” Celegorm finally said at a volume that wasn’t anything greater than normal, but sounded terribly loud, “That was odd.” Jon didn’t even snort, he just continued to strip to his small clothes. The boy did throw himself onto Celegorm’s bed dramatically though, disturbing Lady’s moping, which made Celegorm feel a little better. 

Celegorm followed Jon to the blessedly soft mattress and burrowed himself under the covers, accompanied quickly by three wolves and a boy. He blew out the lanterns and lay in the darkness for a few minutes, just listening to Jon’s breathing. Celegorm could still feel his blood rushing too quickly through his veins, and, though his Mannish body ached for sleep, he knew it would not come. Celegorm was merely waiting for Jon to fall into his decidedly-not-green dreams, so that he could slip away. 

Perhaps he would fish. Or punch another tree. Celegorm just needed to touch something, and warp it. He felt powerless and dwarfed by the intangibility of his problems. He had to prove himself capable of impacting _anything_. Celegorm had never liked to face or consider cosmological issues; that was why he was always so willing to surrender those worries to greater beings who could. 

“Do you think the Reeds are mad?” Jon whispered suddenly, startling Celegorm. 

“What?” The thought that the Reed boy was making up nonsense had never even occurred to Celegorm. The old histories of the North had mentioned prophets and seers… The power had existed in Arda. But it hadn’t graced Westeros in Jon’s living memory, or Eddard’s, or grandfather Rickard’s. Perhaps not even in Old Nan’s. 

A thought came to Celegorm’s blank mind, and he remembered how empty he felt in Beleriand. How the children born in that land could never match Kano’s voice or even Tyelperinquar’s skill in the forges. The very life had syphoned from them in that forsaken spot of earth. Even Huan became more bestial among the Valar-less lands. 

Could a world be drained of power so thoroughly? 

But that was a dangerous thought, so Celegorm simply muttered, “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Such tales are the province of old women and children.”

“Uncle Benjen’s mentioned odd things. Wildling powers, a great evil that marches south… magic beyond the wall.” Celegorm didn’t know why he was defending the possibility of Jojen Reed’s sight. He wanted to curl up and close his eyes, and hopefully when he woke he would forget anything even slightly related to higher mysteries and Elves. 

Jon went quiet again, but his contemplation didn’t last long. “The man Father executed the day we found the direwolves… ‘Beyond the wars of men’ and ‘atop ice’. Celegorm, you don’t think he means I should be–”

“No.” Celegorm shot his across the bed and grabbed the back of Jon’s head, dragging the boy’s eyes up to meet his own. “I don’t. At least… at least I don’t think it has to. Do you want it to?”

Jon paused, and he seemed to be gathering his words, picking each carefully to make them count. That was a lot of pressure to put on a child, to ask them to stare at their own fate and decide whether to accept it or fight against it. It had been a lot to ask of Tyelperinquar, though Celegorm didn’t know what his nephew’s eventual answer was. Brave Tyelpë… he was probably still in Beleriand. 

Celegorm suddenly realized he didn’t know when or how or if his brothers died. That didn’t matter though, he could ask. But Celegorm feared what he would do if one of those brothers told him that their nephew had fallen. 

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed suddenly, and Celegorm worried that his own eyes had shown too much. At least Jon wouldn’t be able to properly interpret what was on Celegorm’s mind. Then… well then both of them would be the mad ones. 

Jon finally found his words. 

“I don’t really know. If I had heard that a few months ago… gods, Celegorm, I would have jumped on that. That certainty. A straight path to the top and some mystical guarantee. Being a knight isn’t that… clear, but I get what you mean about having options now. Going places, learning things. I want to see King’s Landing now. Or Essos. And the Wall too. But I’m not sure I want to be a knight either, not enough to stay if I _should_ be a brother of the Night’s Watch. But I… Celegorm, I don’t… I don’t think I want to go do that or be a knight either! All I want is– I just I want to be able to stand next Robb! And be proud!” 

Jon cried silently. Celegorm, when he was young, had thought that only bastards wept in a way that couldn’t be heard; wanted children could afford to scream for attention after all. But that wasn’t true at all, he now knew. Adolescents cried silently, and so did grown men who felt they couldn’t afford weeping in front of their wives. Girls in bad marriages cried silently, and so did shy children. Maitimo, Makalaurë, and Carnistir had cried silently, even though Tyelkormo had always been loud.

But Jon was a bastard, and a shy child, and an adolescent, and he never let tears flow where he could be heard or seen. Not unless Celegorm made him cry. Even then, Jon curled in on himself to appear small and unimportant, and muffled his frustrated squeaks against his pillows. But Celegorm and Ghost both pressed close, so it was fine. They wouldn’t let him be ignored. 

Celegorm held Jon to his chest and let the boy cry himself out. It didn’t take long; it wasn’t as if Jon was prone to letting himself be vulnerable. But the fit that Celegorm was always trying to coax him into meant less than nothing, because Jon had found no answer and no solution. He wept for frustration and Celegorm didn’t know how to help him. Celegorm had never been able to help Jon, no matter how hard he tried. 

But Celegorm wasn’t done trying yet.

As expected, he slept very little. With only three hours of rest, Celegorm silently pulled himself from the covers and the pillows and the wolves. Huan followed, but the three pups didn’t stir as he clothed and left the room. Celegorm wasn’t surprised; it had been an exhausting journey. 

Before the sun was even a whisper on the horizon, Celegorm trekked through the clustered trees. He sang alongside the frogs and breathed in sync with Huan as his nimble fingers weaved and set small, quick traps from bark and twig and moss. The direwolf, meanwhile, wandered and prowled, lips pulled back from his maw but silent. Huan snapped silently at foolish squirrels, snatching them up before the creatures even knew he was there. Between the two of them, they were able to gather quite the respectable meal of frog and squirrel. Many would recoil from the thought of eating such small, dirty creatures, likely fearing they carried disease. But not the crannogmen. It would be a good offering.

Celegorm could not say if the village travelled with the keep or if the people there had adapted quickly to the presence of Greywater Watch, but the several villagers were already up and heading to the keep as the sky lightened. Following the direction of a pair of serving girls, Celegorm was able to find the seemingly-ramshackle town with minimal fuss, and not a single fall. He felt steadier on his feet today, with just Huan at his side.

Amos was even easier to locate, as the man was chopping wood outside one of the larger crannogs. He look pleased as he accepted Celegorm’s frogs and squirrels, and Amos already had a task in mind when asked about occupying Jon. Wulfran and some of the other boys were to repair a bridge today, and fish after setting traps for some beavers. Amos was accompanying them to discourage tomfoolery, and taking Jon along wouldn’t be any trouble. He’d try to teach the boy how to use the nets, and maybe the boys would be allowed to duel one another, but only if they got their work done in time. Amos promised to return Jon after the sunset, and instructed Celegorm to have his boy ready to work and get traveling by the time sunrise finished. Wulfran would be sent to collect Jon. 

Celegorm bid him many thanks and told Amos not to be afraid to bruise Jon’s ego a little. The boy held onto his pride like a shield against the world, but that crutch could quickly cripple a man. That’s what Maedhros had told Celegorm about his anger, and it was a lesson he wanted Jon to learn swiftly. A few hours with the fair but harsh crannogmen would held that along well.

The sun was a quarter of the way over the horizon when Celegorm returned to his room in Greywater Watch.

Perhaps literally throwing the mattress was not the kindest way to rouse Jon, but it was the most effective. The boy cursed and spit and Ghost paced angrily. Poor Lady just curled up around a displaced blanket mournfully and sat back down. Celegorm heaved a sigh at the sight, but put his mind to dressing and feeding Jon, and giving his orders.

_Be polite, be deferential, don’t complain, don’t die, don’t drown even just a little. Watch out for lizard-lions, and play nice with the other boys. Learn something. Make friends._

Jon grumbled as he collected his boots and strapped on his standard-issue sword, pouting like the child he swore he wasn’t. He tucked into the spot of bread Celegorm had gotten him with just a little indignation, and professed how he expected the menial chores to be easy enough. Celegorm just smiled while watching his cousin eat. Jon was a damn good boy, but he’d be a great man one day. Whether or not he belonged on the Wall or to a family, he would be a great man. Celegorm would stake his life on it.

When Wulfran came for Jon, the sun had just peaked beyond the horizon. Celegorm sent the young men off with a cheerful wave, fully expecting to see them exhausted and covered from head-to-toe in mud come dusk. As the boys walked away, something bittersweet and fleeting gripped Celegorm’s heart. “Jon!” he suddenly called after his cousin, drawing the boy’s closed-off face back. Celegorm smiled, teeth bared to wide to be wholly comforting, but a smaller gesture than his normal rakish grins. “When you return tonight… There’s something we need to talk about.” 

Jon looked more than surprised, but he didn’t press or pry. He simply nodded and walked on with Ghost loping at his heels, and Celegorm felt so very happy for him.

But then he made his way to Lord Reed’s office, and the apprehension set in. 

It wasn’t much of a worry, though; mostly because Celegorm just wouldn’t let the seed of concern grow. Many had called Celegorm brave, from Ambarrussa to Ethan to Yohn Royce. But he didn’t think so. Being brave meant besting fear, fighting it bitterly and conquering yourself. Celegorm had not beat fear, never once, because more often than not he didn’t allow himself to feel it. He crushed those infant concerns, or pushed them to the back of his mind, and tackled whatever the problem was before fear of it could become debilitating. He was brash rather than brave, and Celegorm could admit that. So, he stopped thinking about anything that could potentially be worrying about what Lord Reed and Uncle Ned had to say, gave one scritch to Huan’s head, and banged the doors open.

Lord Reed sat on a railing that made up one wall of his office. The little man was settled precariously on that thin plank of slightly rotting wood, peeling an apple with a knife. Lord Reed’s face was turned away from both the door and his work though, steadily facing the darkened west. Celegorm could just barely see the man’s profile settled into a stony visage. He looked… at peace, but there was neutral twist to his mouth that made Celegorm think Lord Reed wasn’t wholly happy with whatever he was considering.

When Lord Reed turned to regard Celegorm, his eyes– a different color from his son’s, but something so inconsistent the shade couldn’t be named– held Celegorm in a vice grip. Then Lord Reed smiled. The expression was small, just barely a quirk of the lips, but it was calming to behold. 

Huan gave a low whine that Celegorm didn’t know how to interpret.

“Good morning, Ser Snow,” Lord Reed said, setting his feet onto the floor and walking towards his desk. Reed took a bit of his apple. “I hope you and young Jon slept well, and that the direwolves have been comfortable.” His half-lidded gaze fell upon Huan, and then Reed inclined his head. At first, Celegorm assumed Reed was studying Huan, but it quickly became obvious that the gesture could not be mistaken for anything but a bow. 

“Hound,” Reed said quietly, and Celegorm hated that it sounded like a greeting. But Reed kept speaking before Celegorm could do something foolish– like trade looks with his wolf. 

“After we discuss Ned’s letter, breakfast will be served, but you can go along with your day as you please. I would request you be at dinner though, because Jojen is to apologise to you and your squire for being so rude. I beg you to please be kind and generous to my boy, and hopefully accept his repentance, but it is your right to not do so. I would understand, and our hospitality is not revoked if that is the case.”

“Nothing of it! Forgiven– It was us. I’m really sorry if we’ve disturbed your family,” Celegorm managed to get out in response, because it seemed like the polite thing to say. Taking the blame as guests and all that. But Celegorm was so thoroughly thrown off his equilibrium by Lord Reed that he might as well have been a stuttering child, and his reply an inconsistent mess. 

This was like trying to talk with Atar. Celegorm just knew this man’s mind, Reed’s… understanding so thoroughly dwarfed his own that there was no reason to try keeping up. But Lord Reed inclined his head gracefully with what looked like real gratitude on his face at Celegorm’s mess of an apology. 

Howland Reed, Celegorm thought, seemed to be more patient than Feanor had been with the slower specimens around him. Somehow… that was more insulting.

“You haven’t,” Reed said in his same, steady monotone, “I’m sorry that my family has disturbed you and your cousin. Jojen’s green dream are often intrusive and more hindrance than help. I will not tell you to ignore or disregard his words, because I would be giving you advice I blatantly do not believe in. But I will encourage you not to dwell too long on the future, or where one is or supposed to be. Nothing good comes of it.”

Celegorm huffed, and the honesty felt compelled to fall from his mouth.

“Ha, you’re talking to Harren about the dragons! Don’t worry about me, I have… It will take more than that to frighten me.” But when his mind considered for more than a second he _was_ almost frightened, because those eyes were piercing and the higher mysteries dwelled yet in Westeros and he wasn’t moving or running or _anything_.

Huan nuzzled at his hand and Celegorm gripped at his scruff. 

Lord Reed acted like he didn’t see anything odd, and Celegorm wanted to shake him; hold the crannogman over the balcony of his office and demand an answer to a question Celegorm didn’t even know. He needed Reed to say he saw who Celegorm was. But Lord Reed remained silent, still, just staring into Celegorm’s hostage eyes, and _searching_. Not even Artanis as an adolescent had been this bad.

“So about Uncle Ned’s letter!” Celegorm barked, still unable to shift his gaze but body tense as a spring.

Lord Reed finally blinked, and he casually took another bite of his apple as he turned his stare towards his desk. He went to grab a bundle of papers. In his moment of reprieve, Celegorm scrunched his eyes shut and studied the shifting spots of color behind his eyes. Nothing seemed green…

“Please,” Lord Reed called, drawing Celegorm’s gaze back towards his frame but nowhere near his face. Reed pointed to the far side of his balcony where two chairs were arranged around a small table. “Sit with me. What Ned has asked me to tell you is a long and complicated story. And a sad one. The burden of this knowledge…” Reed flicked his eyes up very suddenly and Celegorm flinched as he was tricked into looking into his river-water eyes again. _Brown and blue and green and clear._

Reed tilted his head like a bird. “You will be able to handle it…”

Celegorm wasn’t sure whether it was a question, but he quietly said, “Yes,” anyway.

He and Reed sat.

“I met your father during the Tourney at Harrenhal, Celegorm Snow,” Lord Reed began, and Celegorm knew instinctively not to interrupt or ask questions or comment until the end. It was as if he was a child sitting on Old Nan’s knee– a special privilege he got as the only child in Winterfell during his youth; once Uncle Ned’s children were born they were all relegated to the floor– listening to tales that held power and trying to ignore the sound of his father yelling at Lord Stark or Ma’s frustrated cries. Instead of the sounds of people though, the screams of the old gods’ domain added the background music for Lord Reed’s story. Frogs, birds, bubbling water…

No… giving his attention to Lord Reed was less like Old Nan’s fireside tales. It reminded Tyelkormo of listening to Lord Oromë’s sermons on the young days and the first hunts. 

“I also met your uncles and aunt there for the first time. All the Stark children were intriguing in their own ways. Each had something great within them to give. But though I came to have high regard and care for your father and uncles, it was Lyanna who stole everyone’s affection. Some of this story you will already know, and you will think it unimportant to the matter of Jon Snow’s mother. But I beg you to wait and listen. Save your questions. What I have to tell you will be an… elaboration on a well-known tragedy.”

Celegorm could have laughed. _What manners Reed has! Asking things of me that he must know he has already demanded and ensured._

“I met Lyanna on a warm spring day, when I was exploring those tourney grounds. The colorful tents and shining weapons and beautiful festivities I was admiring, when I was suddenly set upon by three squires. There were none older than fifteen, yet even so they were bigger than I, all three. This was their world, as they saw it, and I had no right to be there, as a crannogman with no desire to take up a lance or horse. They snatched away my spear and kicked me to the ground, cursing me for a frogeater.

“None offered a name, but I marked their faces well so I could revenge myself upon them later. They shoved me down every time I tried to rise, and kicked me when I curled up on the ground. But then we all heard a roar. 'That's my father's man you're kicking,' howled the she-wolf.”

 _Aunt Lyanna would. She would, she would._ He had loved her so much as a young one. She had been kind and vibrant and mischievous, and Celegorm had been enchanted with her dark, wavy hair. She would visit him and Jocelyn often, usually coming along with Brandon to Ironrath but occasionally making the trek herself. Lyanna would take Celegorm to ride with her, and let him play with the flets on her arrows as long he didn’t touch the pointy-end and didn’t tell his mother. She and Father had the same laugh– deep and powerful– something wholly different from how Uncle Ned and Uncle Ben showed mirth. Celegorm missed that laugh.

“The she-wolf laid into the squires with a tourney sword, scattering them all. I was bruised and bloodied, so she took me back to her lair to clean my cuts and bind them up with linen. There I met her pack brothers: the wild wolf who led them, the quiet wolf beside him, and the pup who was youngest of the four.”

‘Wild Wolf’ had been Celegorm’s nickname in Ironrath, something the servants called him as he ran off with sweets or after he pulled some nasty trick. It made his throat tighten to hear the moniker applied to Brandon. 

“That evening there was to be a feast in Harrenhal, to mark the opening of the tourney, and the she-wolf insisted that I attend. As a noble bannerman, I had much a right to a place on the bench as any other man, apparently. She was not easy to refuse, this wolf maid, so I let the young pup find me garb suitable to a king's feast, and went up to the great castle.

“Under Harren's roof I ate and drank with your family, and many of their sworn swords besides, barrowdown men and moose and bears and mermen. The dragon prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle, but when her pup brother teased her for crying she poured wine over his head. A black brother spoke, asking the knights to join the Night's Watch. The storm lord drank down the knight of skulls and kisses in a wine-cup war. I saw a maid with laughing purple eyes dance with a white sword, a red snake, and the lord of griffins, and lastly with the quiet wolf...but only after the wild wolf spoke to her on behalf of a brother too shy to leave his bench.”

 _How have I never heard this story? Jon will have to know about Uncle Ned and–_ Then Celegorm remembered the purpose of this story and sat up a little straighter. Purple eyes… It couldn’t have been Celgorm’s Ma, the only person with purple eyes he knew. She wasn’t at Harrenhal, having been confined to Ironrath with her toddler. But purple eyes… some _Targaryen_ maid? Perhaps another bastard daughter or estranged family branch?

 _Like me, like me?_ The secrecy would make more sense.

“Amidst all this merriment, I spied the three squires who'd attacked me. One served a pitchfork knight, one a porcupine, while the last attended a knight with two towers on his surcoat, a sigil all crannogmen know well.”

 _Fucking Freys._ Walder Frey was perhaps the most disgusting specimen Celegorm had ever spied, and he’d wanted to claw the man’s eyes out for how he spoke to Maedhros. Rather than subject himself the vile Freys ever again, Celegorm always swam across the river when he could, or took the long way around when he couldn’t.

“The wolf maid saw them too, and pointed them out to her brothers. 'I could find you a horse, and some armor that might fit,' the pup offered to me. I thanked him, but gave no answer. My heart was torn. Crannogmen are smaller than most, but just as proud, as I’m sure you know. But I am no knight, no more than any of my people. Much as I wished to have my vengeance, I feared I would only make a fool of myself and shame my fellow crannogmen further. The quiet wolf had offered me a place in his tent that night, but before I slept I knelt on the lakeshore, looking across the water towards the Isle of Faces where the green men dwell… and I said a prayer to the old gods of the North and Neck.

“The tourney went on, and the first day passed pleasantly and normally. But late on the afternoon of that second day, as the shadows grew long, a mystery knight appeared in the lists.

“The mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The sigil upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face. The Knight of the Laughing Tree, as he was called by the attendants, dipped his lance before the king and rode to the end of the lists, where the five champions had their pavilions. You know the three he challenged: the porcupine knight, the pitchfork knight, and the knight of the twin towers.

“The old gods gave strength to the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s arm. The porcupine knight fell first, then the pitchfork knight, and lastly the knight of the two towers. None were well loved, so the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree. When his fallen foes sought to ransom horse and armor, the Knight of the Laughing Tree spoke in a booming voice through his helm, saying only, 'Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough.' Once the defeated knights chastised their squires sharply, their horses and armour were returned. And so my prayer was answered… by the green men, or the old gods, or the children of the forest. Who can say. But, though I do believe they were answered, wild wolf, like most prayers, this answer did not come to fruition as nicely or simply as I had hoped.

“That night at the great castle, the storm lord and the knight of skulls and kisses each swore they would unmask the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and the king himself urged men to challenge him, declaring that the face behind that helm was no friend of his. But the next morning, when the heralds blew their trumpets and the king took his seat, only two champions appeared. The Knight of the Laughing Tree had vanished. The king was wroth, and even sent his son, the dragon prince, to seek the man, but all they ever found was his painted shield, hanging abandoned in a tree. It was the dragon prince who won that tourney in the end. I imagine you know who he crowned his Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Of course he did. Of course Celegorm knew. Not only had he heard of the scandal a thousand times as a child in the following months of that false spring, but he had tried to imagine that scene a thousand times in the following years. 

That was the moment when Prince Rhaegar fell in ‘love’ with Aunt Lyanna. That was when the Seven Kingdoms all collectively held their breath. That was the first incident to spark Father’s ire against the Targaryen crown prince, it was the beginning of the end, it was the moment that signed the ink onto Father’s and Aunt Lyanna’s death warrants. 

That one wreath of blue winter roses might as well have murdered Celegorm’s father.

He’d been fixated on that moment for almost his entire life. That, and what it must have sounded like when Father died, desperately trying to save his own father from burning to death.

Celegorm wiped at his eyes in frustration.

“Wild wolf.”

Celegorm jumped as Reed placed a hand on his thigh. The crannogman’s eyebrows were furrowed with concern and severity. Celegorm met his eyes again, and didn’t allow himself the time to feel fear.

“Wild wolf, this is the moment where the story diverges. Can you guess what other role Lyanna played at the Tourney of Harrenhal?”

Could he guess? Yes, of course. No wonder Uncle Ned never shared this story. It was blindingly obvious if you just knew Aunt Lyanna, and believed fierce women capable of such things. And Celegorm was no stranger to fierce and active women. Why, the whole story reminded him of the time Irissë bound her chest and put on a pair of trousers– and did nothing more to disguise herself– and had the gall to look Lord Oromë in the eyes and say, “Of course I am not Prince Nolofinwë’s daughter. I am no one’s daughter! I am Irequen Callomion.” She was still wearing all white. But it had never actually been her intention to trick anyone. She was just giving them all plausible deniability for when they were questioned by Nolofinwë later. 

Irissë had confessed her ruse to Celegorm later with the utmost severity, and they laughed themselves sick.

“The Knight of the Laughing Tree was Lyanna,” Celegorm managed to choke out with a tight throat. He still felt on the verge of tears. 

How they could have laughed about that. Aunt Lyanna would have told him, she always confessed her secrets to her tiny nephew who she thought would never remember them. And she was right. He could not recount half of what Lyanna told him, but he remembered her trust in him like it was a sacred memory. 

But then she died before Celegorm was ever old enough to appreciate his aunt or her secrets. 

She died far away from him, stolen by a man with silver hair who locked her away somewhere dark and killed her. Indirectly, surely, as he had been lusty and didn’t want her dead. But he killed her all the same. 

Somewhere in the middle of his condemnation, Rhaegar shifted to Eol, and then Eol shifted to look like Tyelkormo. Lyanna to Aredhel to Luthien.

On some days, Celegorm hated himself. 

His only internal comfort was failure, which wasn’t exactly a virtue.

In the physical world, Celegorm ran his finger over Huan’s head, which rested in his lap, and tried to focus on Lord Reed. He gave Reed a nod to show his small moment was over. He only briefly wondered what all this had to do with Jon’s mother before being taken by Reed’s spell again.

“Much of what happened next I was not present for. As we all well know, the vibrant she-wolf was spirited away from her kin by the dragon prince the following year. The wild wolf made his complaints, challenged the wielders of fire, and he and the pack leader paid the ultimate price for his love of his sister. The Mad King demanded that the quiet wolf, the pup, and the storm lord promised to the wolf maid be put to death as well. The North and the falcon lord refused. War raged. The dragon prince lost. The Mad King was betrayed. The storm lord became the storm king.”

For the first time, Lord Reed paused, and his face contorted. His next words seemed to physically pain him, as they also seemed… personal.

“Ned, Willam Dustin, Mark Ryswell, Theo Wull, Martyn Cassel, Ethan Glover, and I rode to Dorne to look for Lyanna. And we found her.”

 _And she was dead!_ Celegorm wanted to cry out, like a child parroting his favourite story faster than it can be told to him. _Aunt Lyanna was dead!_ No one had ever actually come aloud and said what she died of. But one could guess, and it ached to think about. It was vile. Sickening. No one ever said their speculation aloud because that would just be cruel. Her family already knew. Ned had seen her corpse. Seen to her corpse. Celegorm never wanted to hear those words pass by Uncle Ned’s lips.

“To get into the Tower of Joy, as it was known, we had to fight three members of the kingsguard. Out of the violence that ensued, only Ned and I survived. As he ran inside to find Lyanna, I followed, checking each entryway and chamber for enemies. There were none. They had all met us at the front door. In fact, there was no one left in the tower, it seemed. No servants to manage its dilapidated state, no other guards, no ladies to attend Lyanna. Until we reached the highest room. In there were three people.

“A Dornish serving girl tried to block our way into the room, but we swiftly cast her aside. On the bed lay Lyanna. Now listen closely, wild wolf, and hold your words. I beg you. For this is going to hurt, but it will hurt more if it is not all said in one go.

“On the bed, coated in sweat and her own blood, lay Lyanna, the fierce she-wolf. And there was still fire in her eyes and breath in her body. But there was also a fever upon her and weakness clung to her gaunt limbs. Despite looking so lowly, though, she clung tight to the bundle in her arms, never once wavering or letting go. The wolf maid was now the wolf mother. And she would use her maw to rip open the throat of any who threatened her dragon pup.”

Celegorm was going to be sick.

“I dragged the Dornish girl from the room, and I asked no questions of her. When Ned emerged, Lyanna was dead, and I kept my peace about what had transpired. Whatever passed between Ned and Lyanna in her final moments belongs to them alone. I can only tell you that when I inquired after the child’s name, Ned said, ‘The father had chosen a name. Lyanna claimed it was to be ‘Visenya’. But that’s a girl’s name… She insisted that the father has to name the babe. So his father will. This is Jon Snow.’

“And that was the end of the matter.”

Celegorm buried his head in his hands. He was shaking from head to toe. He owed Uncle Ned an apology. He owed Uncle Ned a punch to the jaw. He owed Jon… Jon he owed…

Celegorm was crying.

 _Aunt Lyanna, Aunt Lyanna_. His shoulders heaved and Huan was nuzling at his neck. Oh, his Aunt Lyanna with her fierce Stark pride, and her beautiful dark hair, and her powerful laughs, and her… longing. She looked so very much like Uncle Ned, it would be so easy to make such a switch. It was no wonder Jon looked like a younger, handsomer version of Lord Stark.

Celegorm was a fool. A silver-haired... Targaryen fool.

Why was Celegorm– with only a quarter of dragon in his blood and the same fierce north in his veins!– the one who had to look like them?

And then Celegorm was ashamed of that thought. But his shame didn’t stop the fury from pounding in his head, forcing more tears from his eyes and a snarl to his lips. This was just too much. There was too many emotions coursing through him, and anger was the clearest and the strongest to grab on to.

He hated Rhaegar Targaryen, perhaps more fiercely than he had ever hated anyone. He had taken Father, Grandfather, Aunt Lyanna, and now he had taken Jon!

Solemn, sweet Jon who just wanted an ounce of pride to his name, who fought so hard for the approval of a father that wasn’t even his own. Why did the Targaryens get a claim to Jon? Why did they have any right to Celegorm’s family, why were they always intruding into where they didn’t belong? The North didn’t want them!

Celegorm didn’t want those damn dragons anywhere near his family, yet they were always there. Even in death. Especially in death! Looming over himself and Ma, taking every small piece of security they could possibly grasp. Celegorm had nightmares of a dragon swooping down from the sky and scooping him up. But other nights he was decked in black and red and marched down a hallway lined with dragon skulls to stand before a hulking king with a black crown. In the end of both dreams, he burned alive.

All at once those vivid nightmares shifted so that Jon stood in Celegorm’s place, and he wanted to cry all the harder. He didn’t, though. Suddenly the tears dried up, and Celegorm shot up from his seat.

He needed to find Jon. 

He had to find Jon before… before the long dead Targaryens took him? Before Baratheon found him, nearly fifteen years after the ruse? Before Jon’s uncle swept him away to an isolated land, far from where his father’s kin could reach him?

Celegorm swayed on his feet, but, luckily, Howland Reed was able to steady him before he went careening over the balcony. Reed set Celegorm back into his seat, and captured his eyes again. But Reed no longer looked cool and steady and unflappable. His face was in pain, and he seemed so very concerned. Like he actually cared!

“There is one more thing you should know, wild wolf, before you growl and hunt brashly like your father. Lyanna truly did come to know Prince Rhaegar during the Tourney of Harrenhal. She was enchanted with him initially, but the prince… he found our ruse out. And he did not drag Lyanna, Benjen, and I before his father for punishment as he should have. Lyanna was grateful, and he was taken with her spirit and ferocity. I cannot say for certain, but I believe they kept up a correspondence the following months. On the matter of Prince Rhaegar ‘taking’ Lyanna south… I must confess, I do not believe she was wholly unwilling.”

Celegorm laughed and hated himself for it.

Maybe that was why Luthien had lived where Lyanna and Aredhel had not. She actually had enough sense to be unwilling towards vile men like him.

Huan curled around Celegorm’s feet and Reed ran a hand through his hair as Celegorm sobbed.

Celegorm hated this whole situation. ‘Off to prowl and hunt like his father’, ha! There was no one to fight. No one to hit or kill or take retribution on. The whole matter was over and done with, and there was nothing else for him to do. Nothing that is… but hold Jon in his arms as he’d never done for Lomion.

He’d been so angry after Turgon announced Aredhel’s death; after he told everyone about her kinslaying husband and young, orphaned son. Celegorm was angry at Aredhel for not coming to him for help, angry at Turgon for letting this happen to her, angry at Eol, who in Celegorm’s imagination was more of a monster than an Elf. He hated the idea of Lomion’s very existence, and had no desire to see or approach the boy at the time. But then those feelings had cooled, and Tyelkormo had been desperate to see any part of Irissë that might yet exist where he could reach. He wanted to meet Lomion and see if the boy was anything like her.

But Gondolin was hidden, and Turgon wanted no kinslayers in his beautiful, perfect, perfectly pure city. He could not go to Irissë’s boy. And Celegorm was no good with words, so he did not write to her son either.

Before, during, and after the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, reviled Celegorm and Curufin were ordered to be far away from anyone that could be offended. Celegorm had heard great things about Lomion– as he would always call _Irissë’s_ son, and no one else’s– but did not meet him. Neither Maedhros nor Turgon would allow it. Apparently, Celegorm was a ‘bad influence’. In retrospect, Turgon probably had the most sense out of any of them.

And then Tyelkormo was dead. 

He hoped Lomion was alive and in the same hypothetical, pleasant place he imagined for Tyelperinquar. Celegorm hoped Lomion and Irissë had been able to find one another again, because he did not doubt that she would sail or march back to the forsaken lands for her son. He thought of Jon, and Celegorm wished he’d been able to enjoy that reprieve of death.

It would have been so much easier than trying to care about people again.

Celegorm stood once more, and this time he was a little steadier. Huan swiftly followed his movement, jumping to his feet and curling around Celegorm’s shins to offer some support. Standing, unfortunately, proved to not be the situation-changing revelation Celegorm had hoped for. Instead, he was still frightened, confused, angry, and distraught, while also standing. His chest heaved. 

“I– I need to be… not here. I need to think. Or breathe, and–” Celegorm was cut off by Huan suddenly snatching his sleeve and tugging. If not for Reed’s quick hand, Huan might have tipped him over. His friend offered a lick of apology to Celegorm’s palm, but took ahold of his sleeve again and pulled Celegorm along. Huan was guiding him towards the door. 

When they reached the entryway, Huan paused and turned around, prompting Celegorm to look back at where Howland Reed was staring after them with sad eyes. Then Huan bowed low, and Lord Reed returned the gesture.

“Take care of him, Hound,” Reed said softly. But before Celegorm could process that, the man also gave a deep nod to Celegorm.

“Try not to let this knowledge change how you view your cousin, wild wolf. Titles and roles are as fickle and inconsistent as water, but the core always remains. Even if you choose to share his paternity with the whole world, the white wolf will still be just that. The eyes that are looking can always see someone’s true shape, and he is a Stark. And don’t think poorly of your uncle for concealing this. Everything Ned Stark has ever done, he has done it for his family with the purest intentions.”

A ray of clarity, amid the swirling emotions and double-meaning words and dual memories, came to Celegorm. It just so happened that the clarity was illuminated in the storm of his spirit by a lighting strike of pure fury. Celegorm sneered.

“Maybe he shouldn’t have. Sometimes our families are best left to their fate.”

After those words, Huan tugged him away with all the more urgency.

The direwolf didn’t take him towards their room, but back to the swamp. Huan let go of his sleeve after a while, but Celegorm was expected to obediently follow. Which he did through the rivers and over the marshes as he was led on for miles. 

They marched for hours with no aim, just exhausting themselves by scaling up massive fallen logs. And Celegorm’s mind cleared. His swirling chest didn’t settle, but everything got a little calmer, a little clearer. As they swam against the current, he didn’t feel the need to rip and tear at something until there was nothing but indistinguishable scraps. After climbing a tree, he could almost breath steadily. When they walked past the distant, but loud and bickering voices of young men, Celegorm thought that he could maybe try to… talk. 

But their aimless journey had to end eventually. After the sun went high into the sky and then started to descend again, Celegorm’s legs gave out beneath him. 

He didn’t know where they were, but that probably didn’t matter.

Huan settled in front of Celegorm’s collapsed form, and their eyes were level. Steadily, the direwolf held Celegorm’s stare for a time, just waiting for when his friend would speak. Waiting for Celegorm to be ready. His patience wouldn’t need to hold out for long.

“Jon is Aunt Lyanna’s son!” Maybe Celegorm should have figured out where he was and how close any potential people could be before saying hidden information like that. But his mind was stretched too thin to worry about such things for long, and Celegorm trusted Huan to have led him to a place that offered a little discretion. “Aunt Lyanna is Jon’s mother, and– and that _prince _. Rhaegar Targaryen is his father.” Celegorm blinked. “He’s my cousin. Through Rhaegar Targaryen… he’s my cousin. _Twice_.”__

At first, Celegorm just giggled a little. And then he laughed, louder and louder. To his own relief, his guffaws weren’t the unpleasant, fake sounds he had made earlier. Celegorm’s mirth was light tempered in this moment, and Huan echoed him. The direwolf bounded forward to pounce on Celegorm’s shoulders and nuzzle at his collarbone, and Celegorm wrapped his arms around him tight. He breathed.

Jon was still his cousin. Nothing much had changed.

“Jon’s my cousin,” Celegorm whispered into Huan’s fur. “And he doesn’t have a mother waiting for him out there. I’d hoped… And Jon doesn’t even have a fath–” But that wasn’t true. For all the missteps Celegorm had taken umbrage with, Uncle Ned had raised Jon with love and all the care he could spare. Jon had always been Celegorm’s cousin, and Uncle Ned had always been his father.

Ma would likely agree with that.

Nothing much had changed… but there were still new things that had come to light. 

“Oh, Huan,” he sighed. “What am I going to tell Jon?”

Huan didn’t have an answer. He gave a sloppy lick to Celegorm’s face, but nothing more. Celegorm doubted his friend would speak even if he did have a detailed solution to all their problems just waiting to be put into words. If there was power yet in Westeros, it was faint and gifted to the few. Huan was a selfless and simple creature; he would not waste such a thing on a form of communication he did not even like, if it was even possible. Which it likely wasn’t, as Celegorm could no longer speak to the beasts. Why should they be able to speak back to the men? 

Instead, Huan communicated through his actions, something he’d always done well. He gently nudged Celegorm back to his feet. The sun was setting.

No matter what Celegorm said to Jon, it would have to be said soon.

The journey back to Greywater Watch wasn’t as long or as arduous as their trek away from it, but that was no doubt by Huan’s design. Nonetheless, it was dark when they finally saw the floating keep in the distance. Through the night though, Celegorm was able to make out a small boat in the distance, and when Huan gave a howl that Ghost answered, his suspicions were confirmed. Celegorm waved them down. Having Amos and Wulfran ferry them across was preferable to swimming, and it was kinder on his aching, Mannish limbs.

When Celegorm and Huan climbed in the boat, he noticed that Jon and Wulfran were just as utterly filthy as he predicted. Both boys– as they rowed and recounted their day as Amos steered– sounded exhausted down to their bones, but they grinned at one another and were vibrating with pride in their work rather than their bravado. It was nice to see. But Celegorm didn’t have the energy to banter back and encourage them like he otherwise would have. The crannogmen didn’t notice, but Jon certainly realised how quiet Celegorm was being.

Their farewells to the crannogmen were pleasant, and came with a request that Jon be sent to their village the next morning for work and lessons again. Celegorm tentatively accepted, because he didn’t know how to explain that Jon could be having a crisis of identity tomorrow and might not be feeling up to playing with Wulfran and the other boys come morning. The crannogmen sailed away.

Before they could walk inside, Celegorm grabbed Jon around the scruff and dragged the boy around the edge of Greywater Watch’s floating isle. They walked in silence, Celegorm searching for the godswood. Hopefully, Celegorm thought, Jon would be less inclined to yell in a holy place. Maybe he would feel comforted. Maybe Celegorm just wanted to waste time before having to open his mouth.

When red boughs came into view, Celegorm’s chest started banging uncomfortably, so he dragged Jon to a hidden spot of trees quickly. With great purpose, he settled his hands on Jon’s shoulders. He met his cousin’s grey eyes, Stark eyes. Stark nose and lean face, and thick, dark Northern hair.

Celegorm stared at him intently.

Was there anything that Jon had inherited from Rhaegar Targaryen? There didn’t seem to be. How did Turgon describe Lomion to Finrod in one of his letters? _Just like his mother, but in masculine form and with the smallest irregularities. He’s a boy yet, but in a few years the similarity between him our brother will be uncanny._

He had been talking about Argon. If it had been been Finno he meant, Turukano would have just said his living brother’s name.

Celegorm didn’t know if Turgon’s prediction had come true, if the boy had grown to look more or less like his father or uncle, but– Celegorm blinked. 

Jon’s mouth. It was shaped liked Celegorm’s, something he’d always just written off as a shared Stark quality. But that wasn’t actually true at all now that he was looking. Jon had the same shaped mouth as Ma. And Rhaegar Targaryen, and… The Mad King.

By the old gods and the new. No wonder Ned kept his mouth shut.

Growing up a bastard Targaryen whelp had been perhaps the only thing worse than being just a normal bastard. While it was obvious you don’t just announce such things like being the son of a disposed royal line, Celegorm could also understand why Uncle Ned would spare Jon that knowledge too. It was a haunting fear, insidious and looming; a fear of both others… and yourself.

Celegorm knew why Jon didn’t need that. Jon didn’t need a damn thing of Rhaegar Targaryen’s, not when he had Uncle Ned. But Jon did need a mother. He wanted one; just a figure, a name, a spectre. That’s why Celegorm had started this whole crusade.

“Jon, the reason we came here…” Celegorm said to the patient boy at length, “The letter, and the meeting with Lord Reed, Uncle Ned arranged it because I asked him to. Well, not to talk to Lord Reed specifically, but I asked him… about your mother.”

Jon’s sharp intake of breath hurt to hear.

“And then everything with Arya, Sansa, and the brat prince happened, and there wasn’t time to talk. But he told me to take the letter to Lord Reed, and he would explain, and then… I guess Uncle Ned just thought I could decide if you were… He asked me to decide what to tell you.”

Celegorm’s throat had closed up so tight he could barely breathe, let alone tell anyone anything. But Jon’s eyes were wide and brimming with hope. There was fear on his face, and trepidation. But mostly Jon was shaking with the desire to know; to understand just a little bit more of who he was and where he fit into the world.

Celegorm blinked his eyes rapidly. “And of course I’m gonna tell you. Of course I am.” But Celegorm didn’t know what he was going to do at all, or what words were coming out of his mouth at any point in time. He just kept talking, with no reason in sight.

“Your mother… She’s dead, Jon.” The boy closed his eyes, and he gripped on tight to Celegorm’s arms which were still on his shoulders. Jon swayed a little, but he didn’t falter, and he opened his eyes again to nod when he was ready. “The fever took her shortly after you were born. But Lord Reed… he knew her. She was a noble… a noble-hearted woman, he said. Who hunted and rode better than any other on a horse. Just amazing, a fierce and strong woman with a large heart and nothing but love for you. That’s what he said. That she would have fought Uncle Ned if she thought he meant to hurt you, fought him with her very last breaths. She loved you.”

And for a moment, Celegorm thought he could just leave it at that. But Jon’s eyes were imploring, and he was still holding his breath. Celegorm knew he couldn’t stop. But he also didn’t know how to continue.

“Her name was Aredhel.”

It was fortuitous that Jon took that one name and ran with it, that he interpreted Celegorm’s silence as a sign that there was no more to tell, that the boy was so desperate and so willing to take scraps. Because Celegorm wasn’t quite sure of what just came out of his mouth, and he feared anything else he might say. _You’re a coward_ , he thought as he watched Jon’s face run the gamut of a thousand and one emotions.

But then Jon launched himself forward, and buried his face in Celegorm’s chest, and he didn’t have the time or the will to rectify his lie. So Celegorm just wrapped his arms tightly around Jon and did the same thing he had done with every other bad decision he’d ever made in his life: commit.

“Don’t– don’t ask Lord Reed any more, alright? He’s a very private man, and he only spoke because Uncle Ned asked him too, and they want all this quiet. And– and… Just don’t, Jon!”

And Jon nodded against Celegorm’s shoulder, making soft little noises that might have been the beginnings of a few tears. In response, Celegorm blinked wetness out of his own eyes.

“You have a mother, Jon. A wonderful and strong mother, and she loved you so much. She loved you. Jon.”

_I’ll protect him. By the old gods and the new, I’ll protect him, Aunt Lyanna. His father can’t have him. So I’ll take care of your boy. Your son._

_I promise, Irissë._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! So, yes, R+L=J as I, like many, am pretty sure is canon. The rest of the Reed stuff is less canon-y and I despair the day Martin finally writes Howland Reed and I learn that not only was he not the crannogman in Meera's story, but he's a manic jester with extra arms and a pirate hat who breaks the fourth wall. New crack theory, Howland is asoiaf!Deadpool. 
> 
> But to business! Destiny, prophecy, cover-ups! Celegorm makes bad choices. What do y'all think Jon's fate is going to be? How will he do things, where he go, what will your Elven cousin tell you Stark-eyed Snow? Can I make more parallels between Jon and Maeglin? The answer to that last one is yes, yes I can, and will. You're welcome. (I'm half convinced part of the inspiration for asoiaf was Maeglin being grrm's fav silm character and him thinking the mole boy deserved better.)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, commenting and leaving kudos (if you are inclined)! May you have a fruitful New Year, and I'll see you next time, where we'll check in on Caranthir.


	7. Caranthir II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, Hands of the King are being murdered, children are the targets of assassinations, his brothers are falling to pieces, and the realm is on the verge of inter-house war. But Caranthir has got bigger problems. He's tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The work of a beta is never done, so thank you she_who_recs so so much for helping me through this chapter especially.

Caranthir hadn’t realised how oppressive the southern air could be before going north. What comfort the smell of sea salt on the wind had offered that morning was gone; the whole city smelled rank now. But part of that probably had to do with the alleyway in which Caranthir was currently loitering.

He’d hoped returning to King’s Landing would mean a return to form; things like not having to share a room, and being able to lie in a familiar bed. The promise that had kept Caranthir going during the miserable stretch of their journey after Darry was that he would let himself sleep for twenty-four hours straight upon return to the Red Keep. The alone time would do him good. Caranthir— painfully aware of how gaunt his eyes looked after weeks of poor rest— was achingly tired. And now he desired nothing more than to try and sleep the last year of his life off. He needed that. He wanted it.

But that luxury wasn’t Caranthir’s lot in life. 

So instead of lying in his bed, in his quiet, private room, Caranthir was tucked into a filthy alley outside of a tavern in Flea Bottom on his first night back in King’s Landing.

Maedhros had written.

The note left on his pillow was almost exactly like every other letter Caranthir had ever received from Maedhros Tully; impersonal, pointed, and grave. Maedhros wrote one sentence about conspiracy against Jon Arryn, then one more about how he felt about the twins being on Dragonstone. Then he politely said that he would try to contact Celegorm Snow in Winterfell and direct him to where he could be of use. At the bottom of Maedhros’s letter, he’d written, _I believe it is time to grow bold, and consider all our options. Please meet me at Daeron’s Pub at eight in the evening tonight._

It rankled Caranthir how Maedhros spoke like he could just ask his brothers to go anywhere, do anything. Maedhros Tully was obviously a man used to getting what he wanted, and no politeness could disguise that. Expectation had seeped into every inked word. 

Caranthir could hardly begrudge Maedhros, though, when Caranthir was the one who followed orders so unflinchingly well. Especially the orders Maedhros loved to disguise as requests. Thus, Caranthir did as he was bidden.

The alley to the right of Daeron’s Pub was uniquely filthy, mainly because the ground was littered with fur for some reason, in addition to the typical mess and people of ill-repute. Caranthir had already been the victim of attempted pickpocketing twice, because not even his plain clothes were enough to look unsuspecting. He wasn’t even carrying money. 

After all, if Maedhros wanted him out here after months of tense travel, he could damn well pay for drinks. 

Because why now? Why the urgency and ‘boldness’? Jon Arryn’s suspicious death was the obvious answer, but there had been conspiracy and turmoil abounding before. There were a thousand times Caranthir could have reasonably summoned Maedhros for assistance during some crisis. A thousand and one days when he’d wanted to call for help. Why was this different?

Why hadn’t Maedhros ever wanted to meet with him before, during the many years of their correspondence?

It was Caranthir who sent the first letter, after all. Caranthir bothered and badgered Maedhros, not the other way around it seemed; remarkably one-sided. Why? Their communication was dangerous, yes, but how did Maedhros hold back? For Caranthir, it was almost a compulsion. Even at the point when he sent the first letter, nine year-old Caranthir had already been forcibly staying his hand for years, halted by the fear that Lord Maedhros wouldn’t know who he was. By the time the twins were presented at court— with their too-clever eyes and familiar names and shock of red hair— he was a mess of uncertainty.

It would be too risky to contact someone who might just be a figment of his madness. He shouldn’t bother a lord without proof of some alternate identity, any scrap of it. But how he had _longed_.

Caranthir’s one stroke of mercy came in the form of Lady Arryn’s gossip, and his own good ear. 

“Maedhros calls them ‘Ambiroose’, or some such nonsense. I don’t know what goes on in that boy’s head half the time. Did you hear about that _awful_ squire of his? Cat’s beyond furious with him.”

He seized his chance.

Caranthir’s tengwar was out of practice, and his child’s handwriting would have made Feanor faint. But his insinuations were clear, even if his tone was hollow. Everything was so carefully worded; sterile and disinterested even in their own language.

Just because Maedhros might recognise Carnistir’s signature didn’t mean he would care about him or be happy to hear from him, after all. Curufin could read and write Tengwar and called Caranthir ‘Moryo’, but he didn’t know a promise from an oath. The babbling, gross Arryn twins seemed to know who Caranthir was, even what. But that suspicion was only formed because some days they screamed at the sight of him, and Cersei used it as an excuse to banish Caranthir from the nursery. It was remarkably unfair, and made Caranthir cry for hours. Caution with Tully seemed to be the best course of action.

Caranthir was further convinced vagueness was the right approach when it took Maedhros months to reply.

When Tully wrote back, his phrasing and words were just as bland and false as Caranthir’s. He hadn’t known what to do with that, but followed Lord Tully’s lead. Even as Maedhros was accommodating and kind, that particular straightforwardness became their routine. They conducted business, rather than corresponding in the mad scribbles and emotional purges he wrote to Curufin. That mindset made it easier to communicate with the man that Caranthir— with his child’s imagination— saw in his mind’s eye as missing a hand, and scarred, and terribly serious all the time. He tried to talk to Lord Tully like he would Uncle Tywin, full of grown-up sensibility and well controlled maturity.

Maedhros’s curt tone of voice supported that grim image of the heir to the Riverlands. All questions asked and answered— Did we succeed? No. Were our deaths worth it? No.— were coated in professional detachment. He wrote to Caranthir like an adult, something he appreciated all the way up until the point he no longer felt like a child. Sixteen year-old Caranthir Lannister— dealing with a hysterical Curufin and not terribly sure of what his next step after knighthood should be— was a little bit more wary of the professional distance between him and his own brother.

For all intents and purposes, he and Maedhros Tully had a common interest in an odd phenomenon. Nothing more. Which had been fine, until it suddenly hadn’t been. Now it felt like another pick at a wound which each new letter.

But tonight Caranthir would have to look his eldest brother in the eye, and they couldn't maintain that distance. Caranthir didn’t want to, not when it was hurting so bad. But still, destroying that routine could prove… not good. Unfruitful, more trouble than it was worth, a detriment to a working relationship that didn’t end in screaming matches every day. This meeting tonight was a gamble, because Caranthir couldn’t be sure what their business relationship would be replaced with.

By the Mother… Caranthir really didn’t want to it be like in Valinor. 

He and Maitimo hadn’t been close the first time around. Not at odds, or estranged; not angry. Just… distant. They were very alike; rational and focused in a way their combustible brothers weren’t. That was why they fell so easily into a practical routine! But being reasonable all the time wasn’t really fun. It was no wonder Maitimo loved Makalaurë’s dramatics, and Carnistir fed of off Tyelkormo’s changeable nature.

Carnistir just hadn’t needed Maitimo’s smothering protection, and Nelyo hadn’t needed another friend. At least, not one as boring as Caranthir.

Even silently writing across from each other in the library together, they had been utterly apart.

Would it be much the same in this life? Caranthir hoped not. But it was a distinct possibility, one they’d already proven very good at recreating. The coward in Caranthir wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk to his brother like a brother. Or at least not like he did with Curufin— who ran hot and felt just as deeply as Caranthir— or Celegorm— who was very good at forgiving because he often needed to be forgiven. 

Caring about people, especially a lot of people, was terribly hard. And Caranthir was convinced he did it wrong; he always seemed to come at people incorrectly. Expressing himself properly was like trying to work with one of Nerdanel’s statues. Inside a piece of stone— something as of yet unrefined— there were fractures and stresses, and a little chipping and dusting at increments to those areas wielded beautiful results. But one had to be careful not to press too hard or too soft, had to avoid certain fault lines lest the inept sap shatter what he was trying to refine. Caranthir had always been magnificent at finding just the wrong spot to hit with too much force, turning entire relationships to dust. Then he would get wary, and ignore other partly-finished bonds until they looked liked little more than empty stone; things that once mattered, but were so neglected they no longer did.

It just felt like there were too many statues to maintain in his life already, and now he would have to recreate his already disfigured and dysfunctional relationship with Maedhros. Damn his parents for having seven children. Damn his parents for having five children. Damn himself for being so inept.

Damn Maedhros for… existing.

Caranthir sighed at himself. 

This reunion was just coming up too fast for Caranthir’s taste. Change had been rocking his routine constantly for months now, with Curufin, Celegorm, and now Maedhros, all in a row. What was it they said in the Stormlands? When it rains it pours? Caranthir was feeling pretty soaked, battered under the stress of how things things were with Curufin, Celegorm, and Ambarussa right now.

Caranthir had spent a large portion of his life adjacent to Amras and Amrod, the three of them orbiting around each other and stealing moments of company. It had been a relief to get answers about what happened after Doriath, though it wasn’t enough. Amras was far more forthcoming with their Elven past than Maedhros, but there was only so much he knew. And when Caranthir wasn’t asking questions, when he just wanted to talk to his little brothers… Ambarussa had always been supernaturally close, but never before had Caranthir so felt like he was talking to people who didn’t really see him. Or, at least, that they didn’t know what to do with him. 

Distant was probably the best way to describe Amras and Amrod together. Bitter and somber, separately. Not to say they were ever physically separate, because they weren’t. But as much as Ambarussa had always tried to pretend it wasn’t the case, they were two separate people. That hadn’t changed; their personalities had, but that was expected. Solemn, silent Amrod; angry, twitchy Amras. They didn’t want to talk about it. 

Caranthir had tried, breaching the subject of Beleriand carefully. It would have been better if one of them had wept or yelled. Instead, Ambarussa had grabbed each other’s hands and stared passively at Caranthir. Their replies were placating, and just grew more so as Caranthir’s frustration had increased and risen to a fever pitch. And each time it was just, “I know”, “how difficult”, “it was a dark time”. Caranthir almost wished he had felt like he was talking to statues, but their keen eyes were too sharp and faces too expressive. Instead, Caranthir was seized by the need to pour more and more of his heart out just to get some reaction. With every word he spoke, the more his fear rose that _he_ was the one who was acting wrong.

Feeling incoherent and like a specimen in a jar was a deeply familiar sensation for Caranthir. The maesters his father called to check on him, Lancel’s teasing inquiries and snickers, the looks he caught when he stumbled between languages and muteness. They all smiled kindly, while their eyes reflected how indulgent they were being. The looked at him partly in pity and partly in judgement, and completely uncomprehending. They wouldn’t actually listen to him, so they just stared like there was something unreal about Caranthir. He was suddenly a complete non-entity to them. And just like he couldn’t make his parents understand, couldn’t make Curufin understand, Amras and Amrod— the two people who _should have treated Caranthir like his ravings made sense_ — didn’t seem to understand him. They stared through him. 

The whole experience was terrifying. Caranthir and the twins still talked, but he never tried to _talk_ again.

After the distance from the twins and the disaster that was Curufin’s awakening happened, Celegorm had been a relief. Because Celegorm was the same: just as loud, as cheery, as angry, and Celegorm had been willing to throw himself back into being family without a moment’s pause. He wasn’t irrevocably damaged. Not like the rest of them, it seemed. 

Seventeen years old, Caranthir Lannister had felt like a youth in Valinor again while they stayed at Winterfell. It was just him and Celegorm tag-teaming their bratty little brother, taking time to do things they shouldn’t and avoiding authority figures. It was like before Mother and Father’s marriage collapsed, before responsibilities, before Lanyë hated him as often as she loved him, before the Silmarils. And that was so selfish, because while Caranthir was so happy to be sneaking off at night with his brother again, Celegorm’s cousin slept between life and death. 

But actually having a friend again was intoxicating, and it didn’t always lead to good judgement. 

Celegorm had gone back North, though— busy with his other duties— and Caranthir knew he wouldn’t be coming back for a long time. He was always like that, running off and not caring about one thing enough to ignore the next thing that caught his eye. Celegorm tended to get fatally distracted; by hunters and Nandor, animals and half-Maiarin girls. 

Amidst all that, he and Curufin were still fighting.

Caranthir’s one, admittedly weak, attempt at ending the feud had done nothing but escalate the issue to the point of absurdity. Shortly after Bran Stark’s terrifying brush with death, Caranthir’s guilt had gotten the better of him. The reminder of how fragile young boys were had made him dwell on the punch that he’d leveled against Curufin, and the violence that followed.

Curufin hadn’t bruised on his face, thank the Seven; they’d been in too small a space for Caranthir to really hit with any power. But the back of Curufin’s head had taken a beating from the shove that followed, and that injury could have so easily gone wrong. He could have really hurt his little brother, and the thought made Caranthir’s eyes squeeze shut and guilt writhe in his chest. No wonder Caranthir— out of all his ill-tempered brothers— was known as the most quick to anger, and the harshest; how easily he resorted to violence. It made him sick to think about.

Caranthir had then pulled Curufin aside to apologize, though he couldn’t get the words out to properly express what he was feeling. The fear, the guilt, the lingering anger, it all coalesced into something that sounded like, _sorry I nearly bashed your skull in when you mentioned my dead lover._

But Caranthir had finally managed to string together a weak plea, saying, “Listen. I’m sorry I hit you. It was too much, I’m just… so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Fine,” was all Curufin had said, eyes impassive. 

Caranthir had felt like he was the one suddenly punched in the stomach. He grew angry. 

“What the hell? That’s all you have to say!”

Curufin sneered in reply, and it further devolved into screaming. Their yelling, allegedly, bounced off the walls and echoed throughout Winterfell. Thankfully, most didn’t know what they had fighting about, because they’d resorted to largely unintelligible Quenya early on. One person did understand how bad it got though, and afterwards Celegorm came to Caranthir to try and scold him; for his language or getting nasty or something. Which was _hilarious_ , and upset Caranthir spectacularly. 

That conversation just started another fight, and Celegorm’s later attempts at corralling Curufin’s poor behaviour went just as well. Suddenly all three of them were fighting. Celegorm patched things up with both brothers, but it was decided the best course of action would be for them to stay out of each other’s issues.

Which didn’t go to plan.

Avoidance only worked so well when one was the prince’s personal guard. After the Darry incident— which had put Curufin in truly rare form; it was almost impressive— Cersei had demanded Caranthir stick closer to Curufin, because apparently the whole thing would have been avoided if he’d been there. Because the Seven knew that nothing was Joffrey’s fault, and if it wasn’t Joffrey’s that must make it Curufin’s. And everything wrong with Curufin was Caranthir and the king’s doing. 

Riding and eating near each other, while both of them were feeling the sting of unfair punishment, had proved fertile ground for a whole deluge of pointless fights. _Your shirt’s untucked_ devolved into _Mother didn’t love you!_ and _Move over_ somehow became _go to hell with those mortals you love so much!_

So they were trying to not talk.

If this were a year ago, Caranthir would have been helping Curufin duck out of the way of the palace’s chaos right now. Then the two of them would decompress from travel with all the gossip and cruel words they wanted. They would revel in that privacy together, exhausted but safe and happy. Instead, Curufinwë didn’t need him, and Caranthir was stuck in a filthy alleyway.

It pissed him off, and Caranthir was well on his way to working himself into quite the foul mood when the clock tower started chiming for eight o’clock.

As the bells were just hitting their sixth stroke, Caranthir heard the tread of soft and well-balanced footsteps echo down the alley, and anticipation wiped away the bitterness. The cloaked figure walked with purpose, and he was taller than could be considered reasonable. As he sat up, Caranthir could just see clear skin and two hands, something that should stop shocking him. He’d caught glimpses of his brother before, brief and fleeting and detached. But Caranthir still held his breath as the hood was pulled back and Maedhros’s too-long hair tumbled past his shoulders.

Briefly, relief swallowed all that uncertainty pressing against Caranthir’s chest. He could breathe.

“Caranthir?” his brother called, and he peeled himself off the wall.

The pounding desperation in his chest was childish, and no doubt fleeting. But Caranthir felt ten years old and hopeful. He was seven and scared that what cousin Cersei said about him being mad was true. He was four and hysterical. And all those times, all Caranthir had wanted was one of his elder brothers. He was the fourth son, the middle child who walked a well-paved path. He’d never felt any shame about relying on his brothers and doling out rivalry in equal measure. But suddenly Caranthir had been very alone, and surrounded by people who needed him to help, and protect, and care, and not insult them. 

But Maedhros could take it. Maedhros could hold up the weight of the world.

At least, that’s what the child in Caranthir said. He was aware enough to admit that to himself. But he’d also deal with that unfair assumption later. He’d pull himself together when he wasn’t sleep-deprived and caught off his guard.

For now, Caranthir wasted no time in throwing himself at Maedhros, forearm first. One of their few brotherly routines of yore had been Carnistir’s insistence on all but decking Maedhros every time they saw each other, in a desire to bring his brother down to a more reasonable hugging level. There had been times when Nelyo had been so good at their game that he didn’t even flinch at the brutal shows of affection.

In this moment, they collided with a heavy noise, and Maedhros doubled over. Which Caranthir thought was dramatic, seeing as he had only dug his elbow in a little bit before wrapping both arms around his middle. Maedhros was just out of practice. After Caranthir removed his elbow, Maedhros reciprocated the embrace easily. It was nice.

“It’s really you,” Caranthir breathed, so quietly he was pretty sure Maedhros couldn’t hear. But he didn’t need his brother to understand, all he needed was to say it out loud. Caranthir gripped Maedhros tighter, and felt the heat coming off his shoulder, how his flesh gave beneath his fingertips.

It was really Nelyo. The eons of distance and the fears of closeness couldn’t compare to the crushing relief of just being able to hold Maedhros.

The confirmation of his brother’s solid form dispelled any irrational, niggling worries about who he was writing to and how. The person Caranthir had fought for was here, unchanged but for good things, and not… not angry, not upset at being left behind. 

Hugging Maedhros felt like relief. His big brother was here, and for just a few hours that meant Caranthir wasn’t in charge.

Maedhros held him tight, until Caranthir decided it was time to pull back. Nelyo’s face was unscarred, and he smiled kindly, indulgently. It was an expression Caranthir hadn’t seen on his face in a terribly long time. 

Perhaps there was something to Celegorm’s theory that they had been made whole again.

Caranthir smiled back wanly. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “I’m going to break out in hives if I have to spend another second out here.”

Maedhros didn’t respond, but threw his arm around Caranthir’s shoulders and silently directed him. And the familiarity was nice, the pair of them just existing peacefully in each other’s space. Nicer than Caranthir thought it would be, but maybe he was just exceptionally lonely. He’d waited so long to be with his brothers again, and nothing had turned out well thus far.

But Nelyo’s silent comfort was a blessing, and kept Caranthir’s nerves steady even as he dodged a drunk that stumbled out of the door when they tried to enter. Caranthir took an deep, unsatisfactory breath of the warm, sticky air inside the pub, and blinked at the sudden lights. Despite his distaste, the sensations coupled with Maedhros’s firm arm around his shoulders grounded him.

Caranthir pulled away from Maedhros, prepared to go accost the barkeep on the far side. But before he could walk away, Maedhros grabbed his upper arm. He turned back to look at his brother, but Maedhros was smiling at another man in an apron. 

“The back room, please, Harrold.”

Caranthir raised an eyebrow. Maedhros shrugged, a self-satisfied grin on his face. _Ah_. Caranthir had forgotten how smug Nelyo could be back when he still bothered to feel things like joy. That mischievous streak and innocent smile had often gotten Carnistir and Tyelkormo blamed for dozens of little infractions. Grandfather Finwë especially had never believed Maedhros was capable of such things like manipulation and switching the sugar with salt. 

The back room of Daeron’s Pub was little more than a broom closet with a rickety table and a trio of chairs. But it was private, and Harrold fetched them a pitcher of mead. As they settled, Caranthir sat in the chair closer to Maedhros, and they waited in companionable silence for a time, studying one another’s faces and drinking slowly. “All right,” Caranthir said at length, because he didn’t know what else to say, “Why are we here?”

Maedhros didn’t flinch or look put off by the blunt demand; he just kept smiling comfortingly. It was actually getting a little annoying. 

“I have a matter I’d like your opinion on, and your help, if you can spare it. Information is what I need, mostly,” Maedhros said, back straight but shoulders relaxed. Businesslike. His face shifted a little, smile falling and brows furrowing. It was all so… practiced. “This matter concerns Jon Arryn and your family. As well as much, much more.”

Caranthir stiffened. Were they really going to ignore it all? Not a single allusion or mention to the fact that they looked different, talked different, had different lives? That was all Celegorm had wanted to talk about, and they’d not had nearly as much time then. One would think Maedhros and Caranthir would have something to say! The last time they were in a room together, Caranthir had bled out all over Maglor.

But instead of broaching one of the millions of topics between them himself, all Caranthir said was “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Maedhros hummed, and sat back. He tapped at his cheek, Caranthir noticed. It was a nervous tick he’d never seen from his brother before, though Maedhros had practiced a thousand different ones at some point or another. Caranthir had no idea where this cheek tapping came from.

After a moment, Maedhros seemed to have gathered his thoughts, and said, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much of anything that’s nice. This isn’t much of a pleasant reunion, especially because I’m about to…” For a second, he looked… apologetic almost. But the expression was gone before Caranthir could really be sure it was there. In its place, Maedhros’s face went blank. “Well, I suppose I should just start at the beginning,” he said.

Caranthir hummed in agreement, still lost in trying to understand what he’d just seen. In his distraction he brought his mug to his lips.

“Someone has tried to murder Bran Stark.”

Caranthir choked on his drink.

“Twice.”

“ _Twice?_ How does that even… What happened?” he hissed.

Maedhros grimaced, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He seemed physically pained by the memory, and it occurred to Caranthir that Bran Stark was Maedhros’s nephew. How terribly odd to think about. 

“You were in Winterfell when Bran fell from the tower, you know that everyone concluded that it was the accident of a boy with a dangerous hobby. But it has become more than likely that what really happened was that Bran was pushed. Because two months ago, a catspaw snuck into Winterfell to kill the boy in his sleep. The assassin failed, but was using Tyrion Lannister’s dagger.”

Caranthir felt his eyes widen, but otherwise his face didn’t move. _Calm_ , he tried to tell himself, he had to be calm. An assassin in Winterfell, who tried to kill Bran Stark. This was news. When did this happen, who knew? Most importantly, who hired the killer? Caranthir licked his lips; a really terrible suspicion was beginning to creep upon him. _Not Tyrion_ , he thought, _it wouldn’t be Tyrion. Dozens of members of the court, Cersei, or even Jamie. But not…_

“Where did this information come from?” Caranthir asked, voice coming out at a growl. 

“My sister. She witnessed and stopped the murder attempt, and she’s still got the dagger. Lord Stark has just been informed of all of this as well, and you can guess what conclusions have been drawn, Caranthir. Please, please tell me you know something. Anything, good or bad.”

“Well, it’s not Tyrion.”

“I don’t think it’s him either, Caranthir,” Maedhros said, hands gesturing placatingly. Caranthir’s heart was beating almost out of his chest, and he wanted to slap those arms away. The slight grimace to Maedhros’s mouth was… indulgent. “That doesn’t make sense. It’s too obvious. But there has to be some answer for the dagger. Is there anyone who would try to frame Tyrion?”

_Plenty._ He was the perfect scapegoat. No one outside of the Westerlands would stick their neck out for a Lannister, and Tyrion was perhaps the only Lannister alive that Uncle Tywin wouldn’t protect. He was the family shame, the dwarf; someone less than a man. Not only was Tyrion easily disposable, but he was easily misconstrued by outsiders. It wouldn’t take any effort to frame him as a deformed figure capable of child-killing for pettiness sake. 

But no matter what someone might believe in the future, the reality was that no one was stupid enough to send an assassin after an infirm child for no reason.

Caranthir took a deep, long breath. He considered Maedhros’s question and closed his eyes, briefly trying to run through any he thought capable, willing, and motivated. Jeremy, one of Lancel’s squire friends, was certainly spiteful enough. The Hound as well. Caranthir didn’t doubt for a second that he would throw a little boy from a window for the crime of just startling him. The problem with both candidates and a few other potentials, though, was that they had been off on the hunt. But among those left behind— the women, the children, the servants— there could be a few. 

The first that came to mind was Sarah, one of Cersei’s lady’s maids. She was a piece of work; relatively new to her job, Sarah was unapologetically ambitious and had already ‘handled’ a few other girls who she saw as annoyances or threats. There was also the king’s cupbearer, a scrappy girl of eight who might have gotten into a tragic scuffle with the boy, though Caranthir really doubted it. Tommen’s butler was a nasty beast, and would often pinch the little boy, so he was probably capable. The Septon who travelled with them was vehement in his distaste for the Northern gods.

There were so many people with grudges, plenty of suspects who could have stolen into Tyrion’s room and nicked the dagger, and few less who would have had the nerve and coin to hire a catspaw. 

But the boy was already stuck in an eternal sleep. What did they fear so much about him waking up?

Bran Stark knew something, something he either didn’t have the time or nerve to tell his parents, something that could ruin someone’s life. Something he saw in that tower while climbing where he shouldn’t. But what? What was so utterly devastating that it demanded this level of precaution to the point of idiocy?

A payoff, a plan, a tryst?

Half a year ago, Amrod had told Caranthir that someone killed Jon Arryn. He had been certain, and his ancient eyes burned in his young face with barely restrained fury. Someone was so scared they had to murder the Hand of the King, and Lord Stark’s little boy. They had to. 

But what would Arryn and Stark both know? And why would people that paranoid be so careless twice?

To Caranthir, that sounded like a vice. A deadly, sinful, desperate, addictive vice. But he didn’t know who yet, nor what poison they chose that was so taboo. There were people who did know though. There always were. 

It didn’t look like he was going to get that time to lounge around in bed.

“There are too many variables, Nelyo,” Caranthir said slowly, and even to his own ears his voice was grave and angry. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you anything. But I think… There’s a few someones I need to go pay a visit too.”

Maedhros just nodded, pleased, and that was what Caranthir appreciated about him most. If he’d said as much— an answer so vague and worthless— to Maglor or Curufin, they never would have let up with the questions. Celegorm and the twins would whine. Their cousins had been prone towards the bad tendency to needle or badger. But Maedhros had always seen the churning water wheel of Caranthir’s mind for what it was. If they wanted any flour out of the mill, Caranthir would need to work up a current first. Nothing was moving fast enough yet to start pounding. 

But it would. 

“How long are you here?” Caranthir muttered distractedly. Maedhros’s presence wouldn’t be hard to explain— the inevitable tourney, his nieces, his nephews—

“Ambarussa!” Caranthir blurted, interrupting Maedhros before he could even answer the previous question. “Do you know anything? Arryn…”

Maedhros didn’t miss a beat, picking up the new thread. “Ah, yes. That’s actually why I originally came here. I’m hoping to go to Dragonstone in short order… But there are a few things I need to do before then, people coming in for the tourney to talk to. But I don’t think the situation with the twins is pressing. Stannis Baratheon… Well, he’s many things, but among them is a loyal friend of Jon Arryn. Lysa has sent them away for protection. It might be best for the twins to just wait out the storm on Dragonstone.” 

Caranthir’s eyebrows crowded up towards his hairline. He didn’t want to imply that Maedhros didn’t know his sister… and Caranthir was certainly biased… and he was sure that no one could keep Ambarussa where they didn’t want to be.

But Lady Arryn hated Amras and Amrod. And Stannis Baratheon? The Eyrie was safe, the Knights of the Vale were safe; Stannis Baratheon was many things, but safe wasn’t one of them.

Caranthir said as much. “I don’t know about that, Nelyo. Being around Ambarussa, they’re… removed. Dragonstone is so isolated, and Stannis isn’t the kind of person the twins could respect. They’re going to drive each other mad. I think Amras and Amrod would be better suited at the Eyrie, not matter what ‘storm’ is brewing. Just, I mean think about it. Shouldn’t they be… _doing things_? Things that their people need of them! Lady A—” Caranthir stopped himself. Maedhros had caught his misstep anyway, eyes going half-lidded. Caranthir paused, and swallowed at the silent reproach. “That’s their duty,” he finished lamely after a moment, “Right?” 

Caranthir watched how Maedhros blinked slowly and didn’t shift. He didn’t like that indulgent smile on his brother’s face. It was very… _Tirion_ ; gold and silver light, soft truths and gentle lies, naïve happiness. Blank. Hollow. Pretty. Caranthir bit his lip, and thought of their cage. 

“I hear your concern, Caranthir,” he said, pleasantly, smiling crooking in the most perfectly charming way, “and I understand how volatile the situation in the Vale is right now. Of course, Amras will need to take up his duties. But with the issues at present still unravelling, having them away from conspirators might not be a bad thing. Someone killed Jon Arryn. I see no reason as to why someone in his household might not be able to do the same to Ambarussa, if they prove a problem. And seeing as they are so capable and intelligent, I imagine many lords would grow frustrated with them very quickly. Some time away from the Vale, even just until the conspirators are caught, but potentially a few years of fostering, might do them some good for when they return to take the seat of Arryn. I promise, Caranthir, they’re going to be okay. The twins are just too precocious for their own good sometimes. Time on Dragonstone can’t hurt them.”

If Caranthir was a lesser man, he would be gaping. He sat back slowly, and knew his face was grim and furrowed. 

Was Maedhros really under the impression that Amras and Amrod were a little odd but perfectly fine? Because Caranthir could not agree with that assessment, not even if the whole world told him otherwise. Surely, if Maedhros spent time with them as any uncle should, he’d noticed that the children _weren’t_ children. And, yes, the first assumption would be that their advanced maturity was normal for a pair of full-grown immortals thrust into children’s bodies.

But Caranthir— for as young as he had been when he remembered what it felt like to have warm blood dripping down his arm but not know if it was his own or a victim’s— had been a child. There was no escaping that fact. He’d cried and wheedled for sweets, and some nights he’d even been desperate enough to climb into his mother’s bed. Caranthir hadn’t understood what was happening to him or what anything meant— hell, he still didn’t— and his child's mind had reacted accordingly. 

Ambarussa, though, might play well at pretend with Myrcella and Tommen, but they played equally well at calm maturity with Curufin. 

Caranthir didn’t know where the line between dysfunctional child and dysfunctional adult was for Amras and Amrod, but he did know that his eldest brother was smart enough to realise how utterly unhealthy that was. Not to mention how it had effectively isolated the twins from almost everyone! No, Caranthir didn’t believe the flippancy for a second. But Maedhros…

Maedhros was just politely asking for information, deflecting concerns, and making those Tirion-pleasing smiles. He was lying to Caranthir’s face. 

Maedhros was conducting a business deal with his own brother.

Caranthir felt his whole body flinch at the realization, and he tried to desperately to pull himself back from that thought before he made a scene. He could have laughed bitterly, though, because Maedhros’s odd act saved Caranthir from having to explain his sudden upset. As Caranthir’s mind turned and ground at his brother’s attitude, he had grown quiet, and Maedhros was able to steer the conversation how he wanted without missing a beat. 

“I’m going to write Celegorm,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about what to do with him, and I believe he might be helpful in the Vale. I want to send him to my uncle there, and hopefully integrate him into the local tourney scene. Then it will be easy for him to pledge himself to the Ambarussa when Amras takes up his position. It’ll also work out well if he can arrive at Bloody Gate around the time I come back from Dragonstone. I’m going to consult with the twins after the tourney King Robert’s announced, then make my way to see what Lysa knows, if nothing else comes to light. That gives me good reason to stay and help with the investigation, and then leave without fuss in equal measure. Hopefully, we’ll have made a breakthrough by then, but if not—”

“He’s doing well.”

“Mmm?” Maedhros blinked, wide-eyed and just ever so slightly irritated at being interrupted. He’d always hated being cut-off mid sentence, an inconvenient peeve to have when one lived with Feanor.

“Celegorm, with having remembered. He’s doing well,” Caranthir said coldly. “Better than Curufin.” 

Maedhros’s face shifted just a little bit, enough to show Caranthir that the expression was probably real. He looked truly relieved, and that eased some of the tension in Caranthir’s shoulders.  
“That’s good,” Maedhros said quietly, eyes shifting to study the table. “I’ve been worried that he’d… Well, I was worried about a lot of things. And if he’s transitioned well… this might actually might be a bit selfish. But I hope he isn’t much changed. I now have many fond memories of him as a young boy, innocent and largely different from Tyelkormo. I don’t want to lose that, and I don’t want him to suffer. I’m glad this weird intervention has given him time. I think being an adult has made it easier for him.”

The words hit Caranthir like the stab of an arrow through the throat, and he flinched. _Is that why Maedhros is putting on such an act?_ an insidious part of his mind wondered. Feanor’s sons had all grown into new men now that they were no longer Feanor’s sons, but Caranthir… had always felt a little left behind. He had been so young when he remembered after all. What that it? Did Maedhros not like dealing with an Elf who has never known who he could have been as a Man?

More to consider, more to consider. Another brother’s mental state to stress about and ruminate on. 

Caranthir sighed, and it was a pitiful sound. A pounding was starting to gather behind his eyes, sharp and demanding. For only a second, he considered dragging Maedhros back to discussing the twins and having a fight about it. Or a pleasant disagreement as it was. But he was just so tired. 

Instead, Caranthir rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and quietly drawled, “I’m not sure ‘weird intervention’ is the best way to describe a _fucking Maia_ , but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“The implications of Huan having come to this realm are immense, though. And not entirely pleasant.”

_Why can’t you just be happy for five seconds?_

Nelyo could never just let things be. Perhaps Caranthir was lazy, but he did occasionally like to enjoy when good omens came their way instead of constantly over-analysing things. Nerdanel would say that Feanor, Maitimo, and Atarinkë had a bad habit of ‘out-thinking themselves’, and worrying over the minutia to the point that they missed easy solutions to their own problems. Either they could enjoy the fact that they had an immensely powerful being at their side in a world with distant higher mysteries at most, or they could stress that it implied balrogs were going to drop from the sky this very second and kill them all; Maedhros always chose the latter. He just couldn’t shut it off. Curufin couldn’t stop it either, constantly out-thinking his own instincts and definition of family.

That seemed like a lot of effort to go to just to make yourself unhappy to Caranthir. This was the reason Nelyo insisted on staring down his own personal nightmare for centuries rather than taking up a pleasant lordship, and doing something more productive than worrying and creating contingencies for every possible scenario. But Maedhros was just as much a smug, prideful, driven bastard as Feanor. He just hid it under affability and the ability to see beyond the end of his own nose. And it meant he wouldn’t let himself have nice things, and nothing could be simple.

Caranthir was exhausted just looking at him.

The bell rang ten times, deep and echoing. Caranthir and Maedhros both looked up a the sound, even though they couldn’t see the bell tower from inside the room.

“It’s getting late,” Maedhros said, sounding positively mournful. “We better be heading back before things get too dangerous out here. Are you expected anywhere?”

“No,” Caranthir sighed as he stood. “But I’d better be getting back anyway.”

The dismissal was quiet but resolute. There was much to think about, and much more to do. 

They left Flea Bottom in a flexible silence. For some stretches of their walk the quiet sat comfortably around them; at others Caranthir couldn’t help but feel on the knife’s edge of saying… something. It fizzled in the air between them as they both paused at the crossroads where they would have to part ways.

Something was _there_ , that bond that made them brothers and not just odd acquaintances. Caranthir could feel it like a magnet. But instead of making any large display, they simply embraced again, and Maedhros whispered in Caranthir’s ear, “If you find something, don’t send a note. I’ll contact you, and we’ll meet up in two weeks time regardless.”

Then they parted ways. 

Family was just like that sometimes, Caranthir reasoned. Some relationships weren’t the volatile mess of love, duty, and hatred that characterized the House of Finwë. Some were just there.

He walked home in the oppressive humidity and felt damp all the same, both inside and out. It was a wholly uncomfortable feeling. 

As Caranthir entered the Red Keep, he mentally prepared to strip off his clothes and start on writing a list. He wouldn’t be able to sleep now, not with his ignorance brought so thoroughly to his attention. Danger was looming, and everyone was pointing fingers at the Lannisters. If his family wasn’t guilty, the Stark group would still be coming for their heads in the meantime, with the likes of Curufin, Lancel, Myrcella, and Tommen in the middle. If the Lannisters were guilty, Caranthir would be expected to side with both Maedhros and Tywin simultaneously. It was an unwinnable situation he’d only just been made aware of, and Caranthir needed to catch up fast.

Unfortunately, though his body thrummed with the desire to get to work on the research and the answers, there was nothing tangible he could do tonight. He could draw up plans, write down suspicions, but he’d be spending the whole night in anxious anticipation; just waiting to start on the actual work. But work required sleep, and to sleep he would be required to relieve some of this anxious energy with work. Another unwinnable situation, one Caranthir was acutely familiar with.

He would just have to trick his mind into thinking he’d done something productive.

 _List of suspects and motivations_ , Caranthir thought as he reached for the doorknob to his room, _list of potential witnesses. Alibis. I should—_

Curufin was sitting on his bed. 

He was curled up against Caranthir’s headboard, socked feet tucked up against his thighs, and head bowed low in the candle light. The boy looked up from the book he had resting on his lap, and for a moment he seemed like a child caught making mischief. Then, Curufin’s expression shifted to outrage, and Caranthir’s exhaustion left his body all at once.

“Where were you?” Curufin shrieked. “You’ve been gone all night, and you haven’t even unpacked! Sneaking around, what were you—”

“Where I go isn’t any of your business, brat! And what are you doing in my room?” Caranthir countered, slamming his door shut resolutely and advancing on Curufin. He settled at the foot of the bed, and watched as Curufin’s face flushed.

Curufin huffed and turned away.

“Naturally, I assumed this was routine. The royal quarters are all astir, and I thought we could be civil and—” Curufin sniffed. 

_And just sit together_. Like they had done a thousand times, when Curufin would sneak off to Caranthir’s quarters and they’d curl up with books or talk quietly together. It was how they would unwind themselves after stressful events. In particular, Curufin never rested well the night after travel, certainly not with his mother making sure everything was properly arranged and Joffrey’s short temper running amok down the hall. When he was especially little, Caranthir would take Curufin by the hand and lead him to whatever room Caranthir was calling home on that trip so they could sleep together.

Curufin had been so small then, not that Caranthir had been that much bigger. Four years between Men wasn’t much, especially not compared to the equivalent of ten or eleven years’ difference as Elves. They’d grown up together in this life, and created so many routines and traditions and habits during that time.

“By the Seven, you’re annoying,” Caranthir sighed. He stepped back a little from the bed to fumble at his boots, throwing them off haphazardly. As Caranthir stripped off what he was wearing and put on his bed clothes, he tried not to watch Curufin settle back down and relax. But it was impossible not to pay attention to him, not the least because of how Curufin tracked Caranthir with his eyes.

“Move,” he groused, nudging Curufin over so he could settle at the end of the bed with his feet occupying the space in front of the left-side of the headboard. With the expanse of the ceiling to stare at and his feet suddenly aching now that the pressure was off them, Caranthir did nothing. He briefly contemplated saying something more to Curufin or grabbing his quill and ink to start on his preparation, but both those actions seemed like borrowing trouble. So instead he just sat, and noticed how Curufin silently went back to his book.

He didn’t seem to want to disturb their tentative peace anymore than Caranthir did. The coexistence was too… nice. Reassuring. 

This fighting wasn’t fun. But more than just being devoid of purpose, their bickering— which a year ago had meant nothing and could at times be gratifying— was suddenly exhausting. It was like a rehash of their particularly barbed spats in the old days.

There had been times in Valinor when they would go months without speaking, but really it had been years because their version of speaking had been screaming. They’d argued over everything, from the countless academic debates, to examining the worth of their individual cousins; their parents, Tyelkormo, the politics of Tirion, as well as the progression of their romantic entanglements and who those were with. Nothing had been off limits between Carnistir and Curufinwë, and it had been vicious and pointless in equal measure. 

They just both had strong personalities, Nerdanel said, too much like their father. That Caranthir agreed with, though it didn’t get to the root of the problem. Carnathir and Curufin were too much like _certain aspects_ of their father. Because as much as people— including Caranthir— liked to say Curufin had been the favorite because he was exactly like Father, that just wasn’t the case. There was more of Nerdanel in Curufin than anyone gave him credit for, and it watered him down just enough that he and Feanor truly meshed well. Caranthir believed his father would have killed an exact version of himself.

Too much pride, too much anger, too much… inability to compromise even the slightest bit. And it was those qualities that Curufin and Caranthir received, with none of the traits that would allow them to make up like they did with their other brothers and parents.

Arguments between them were never resolved; just subsumed into even larger spats. 

Things had been different in this life. As much of the child in Caranthir had wanted to cry and whine and beg, _why this brother?_ , there had never really been a choice; things had to change. Curufin was his brother, Curufin was a baby, Curufin couldn’t be left to his own devices. So Caranthir divorced himself from Lannisport, from Mother, from playing knights with Lancel, and instead he stood vigil on his stubby little legs next to a crib. And somewhere between giggling at Curufin’s poor toddler pronunciation and when Curufin giggled back, those things from who they were before stopped mattering. 

Rather than being Curufinwë and Morifinwë— Fëanáro’s prized son, and the surly one with a sharp tongue— they were just… Curufin and Caranthir. The natural order of their relationship was how Curufin came to his cousin with troubles, how they traded jests, trained together, studied and bickered harmlessly. 

And, after thirteen years of amiability— friendship; love!— to hear Curufin lash out with the mention of Haleth had been… 

Devastating. 

Enraging.

Curufinwë had their father’s orator’s skills. Caranthir liked to think he did too; a Lord of Belegost once dubbed him silver-tongued for his deft negotiations. But Caranthir— for all his quick temper and willingness to hold a grudge— also knew where to draw a line in how he used his words. He’d always stopped himself from going too far, except under the most extreme stress; the incident with Angrod came to mind. But Curufinwë used his words like a weapon that he could plunge and twist into one’s softest parts. And he had not once in his entire life held back against using anything to make his points. 

He didn’t seem to know how.

Curufin had used Haleth like her memory was an especially painful and shameful knife he could use against his brother. And it had hurt. But likely not in the way Curufin expected. How could it have had the desired effect, when Curufinwë had already brought out that tool in his repertoire a thousand times? The edge of that particular blade had dulled, and besides… Caranthir had grown past her. 

He wouldn’t say the pain of the loss had fled him, nor that the memories were anything but bittersweet. But over time, all the intense feelings regarding his relationship with Haleth had grown less volatile. Everything had faded just a little, especially since his Mannish memory was dulling those sensations. Caranthir’s affair with Haleth had been what it was; short, intense, and bound up in their respective duties. He had no regrets about it. 

While once the mention of her— especially the belittling Curufin liked to do— enraged Caranthir, now the intended strike against him had mostly shattered on impact. The attempt at causing pain had been desperate and, quite frankly, weak. Caranthir was almost a little disappointed. But the misguided insult was to be expected.

After all, how could Curufin understand the peace Caranthir had achieved with his dead? With Haleth, his dwarven friends, his comrades-in-arms that were likely lost to him, their parents, cousins… Tyelperinquar. Caranthir had practice.

Curufin didn’t understand what it entailed to grieve for someone who wasn’t coming back.

Not yet. The reality hadn’t sunk in that deep. But it would.

What had upset Caranthir so was that Curufin would even try to hurt him so deeply. Were they not closer now? Didn’t Curufin care? Had Caranthir truly lost the friend he’d made in Curufin Baratheon, just like he’d feared?

It sent him reeling. He was still angry. He still _wanted_ to be angry.

But no matter how much Caranthir tried to stoke that ire, he could already feel it fading. There was a much bigger sore beneath this one itch between them, pulsing until it would finally hurt them for real. But in the moment, the itch— that one, stupid fight— was fading and Caranthir honestly just wanted to… let it. Even though that wasn’t wise. 

Caranthir was just so tired, and feeling Curufin’s silent warmth against his leg was tempting. 

As soon as he felt the resentment starting to slip away, though, Curufin spoke.

“So where were you?”

And all the anger came rushing back. His fingers curled into the blanket, and Caranthir fought the urge to just tell Curufin to leave. Because this would be a production. The second Caranthir told Curufin about Maedhros being in town, there would be questions and indignation, and no ounce of logic would get through to the boy. Things would get personal the second Curufin felt threatened, and Caranthir was sure he wanted to feel that betrayal again.

But there was no way around answering, not without lying. And that would be an even bigger hassle.

“I went to go see Maedhros,” was Caranthir’s short reply.

All he could do was sigh at the indignant yelp of, “You what!” 

Caranthir covered his eyes with his hands.

“You saw Maedhros? He’s here?” Caranthir nodded but he doubted Curufin was paying attention. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it was short notice, I had no time to collect you without causing a stir.”

“That’s a lie!” It was, but it was a lie that bordered on being an excuse. It was conceivable, with Curufin trapped under supervision and expected at dinner and everyone on edge, that getting the crown prince out of the Keep would be nigh impossible. But Caranthir had done it a hundred times before, and even Curufin had managed to slip away on his own effectively enough.

But Caranthir had a million more half-lies.

“What, you think you could blend in at a Flea Bottom tavern?”

“Of course!” 

Caranthir snorted.

“Don’t laugh at me! I have as much a right to see Maedhros as you do, despite any dangers. That’s unfair, why wouldn’t you at least warn me that our brother is _here_?”

Caranthir sat up, blood pounding in his ears, and opened his mouth, ready to hiss: _Maybe because Maedhros didn’t ask for or about you. Maybe he just didn’t want to see you, did you ever think of that?_

But he paused for just a second, and instead snapped, “There was nothing I could do! You couldn’t leave the Keep, and it’s way too dangerous to take you to Flea Bottom. We didn’t even do anything but talk and drink! Why are you so defensive, all the time?” 

“Because you don’t tell me anything! You act like this is all my fault, but you never once warn me or tell me things that actually matter or help with anything!”

“ _Excuse you_?” Caranthir wanted to laugh, but couldn’t with the burning rage taking up space in his lungs. _Never warn you, never help?_

_I raised you!_

“You knew!” Curufin shrieked. “You knew Stark and the king were going to betroth me to Sansa Stark, and you didn’t say a word! You realised Celegorm was going to leave before he told us he was going, and you didn’t warn me! And you didn’t tell me that we were brothers, or about our father, or my family, or anything! You just let me figure it out on my own, and be totally unprepared for my entire… My entire existence is built on a lie and you knew. And now you went to go see Maedhros, and didn’t even think to tell me?”

“I—” Caranthir reeled for a second, and blinked. That was… that was ridiculous! Didn’t he realise how stuck Caranthir was, how agonising that had been? Those were sacrifices for Curufin, not slights against him! Caranthir backtracked. 

“You didn’t need to know any of that,” he hissed.

“Do you hear yourself? I am not a fucking child!” Curufin snapped, and Caranthir felt something twang in his chest.

“Yes, you are!” Caranthir bellowed back. 

Everything went quiet. And maybe it was how the words finally shut Curufin up, but the sound seemed to echo against the walls. It bounced off their stunned faces, and brought everything into sharp relief. Then the awkwardness set in as the moment faded. The silence that followed would have been welcome, if Caranthir knew what to do with it. There was a frightening void, and he needed to fill it before his words could settle too deeply into either of their bones. 

Because that was… that had been perhaps too much. That had shown a hand Caranthir hadn’t even know he was holding.

“None of this is the point,” Caranthir said, and his voice shook.

Curufin scoffed quickly, picking up on the need to move on. “Then what is?”

“The point is that you’re just trying to turn all this shit on me, when I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“That’s such bullshit!”

“It’s not! And you’d get that if you weren’t such a self-centered arsehole. You’re the one being cruel for no reason, saying shit because you can’t deal with the fact things have changed. Dragging up subjects you know you shouldn’t talk about just to get a reaction and feel powerful, and you won’t admit it’s wrong! You can’t say sorry! If you’d just say sorry, and try to be just a little _nicer_ this would all be over! But you won’t, and you just expect me to get over it. And that’s not how things work! You always act like if someone stops talking to you because of what you’ve said they’re not worth your time, but that’s why _everyone_ leaves you!

“You know what? I am _so_ sorry about Aikanaris, because I really did like her. I mourned her. But I’m also sorry that she’s gone, because she made you _nicer_. But she’s not here to remind you of your manners, like you’re not responsible for what words come out of your mouth. So maybe you should put some effort into trying it yourself! There’s a fucking reason Tyelpë chose fucking Orodreth over you! So, dammit, Curufin! Please, for your sake as much as anyone’s, _stop acting like a fucking child!_ ” 

Caranthir’s throat was tight. He’d gotten to his feet at some point without noticing, and now that the words were out he was swaying with the force of all that emotion. He wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. But Caranthir felt like he was burning up, and that he’d just emptied himself out on the floor.

_Oh no. That was really too much._

And Curufin said, with a sneer and arched brows, “Oh? I thought I was a child.” 

Caranthir was cold. The heat that had been making his entire face feel molten cooled in a second and he wanted to collapse in on himself. This was all worthless.

“Leave!” Caranthir screamed.

“No!” Curufin countered, book still in his lap and body still nestled among the pillows despite everything. “I was here first!”

“There is not an ounce of reason in your entire body!” As he screamed, Caranthir was already turning away and yanking the door open. This fight was not worth stretching out, the pain not worth the yelling that wasn’t even cathartic. Caranthir was just banging his head against the wall. So he walked away, though he didn’t notice where he was going or what he was doing. Caranthir only knew he slammed the door on his way out, and that he couldn’t stop moving. 

He meandered angrily for a time, before collapsing in the gardens during the hours before dawn. _That was bad, that was bad, you shouldn’t have done that._ That had been the line. Even more than physically hitting Curufin, Aikanaris and Tyelperinquar were the line, and Caranthir didn’t just cross it. He had sprinted past it to stab Curufin in the chest.

Caranthir, lying in the damp grass in his bed clothes, placed his hands over his eyes. Shame pressed hard against his chest. 

He was no better than Curufin. Not really. Because the reasonable thing to do— the thing that adult role that he had been dutifully fulfilling for thirteen years demanded he do— was go back and apologise. Like he was just screaming about.

And he would. That was what was so frustrating, Caranthir knew he would be the one making amends. He’d apologise for his words, while Curufin wouldn’t, because Caranthir was the older brother and that’s what he did. Not that Curufin wanted Caranthir to fulfill that role.

That hurt— that bitter edge of resentment; that feeling like he’d been rolled up and tossed away— was what kept Caranthir from getting back up. Because it was still warm with the summer, and he was so angry, and the exhaustion was creeping up on him. He’d tried to make peace, like when he apologized for the punch and kept giving Curufin a million opportunities to make up for his words.

In the end, Caranthir slept all night on a plot of grass in that garden courtyard, frustrated cries never actually managing to escape. The heat of his anger and coldness of his devastation halted him equal measure. And if those thoughts of eventual reconciliation never actually calmed any of the waves of shame battering Caranthir’s body, then that was a problem for morning-him.

When a maid roused him in the morning, Caranthir still didn’t have any answers for his problems. At least, none he liked.

He went back to his room and found it empty.

Staring at his rumbled bed and his damp pillow, Caranthir considered making his way to Curufin’s chambers. In the end, he couldn’t force his feet move or his throat loosen enough to make the trip. _The Street of Steel_ , Caranthir reasoned. Curufin would make his way back to the blacksmith’s forge eventually and Caranthir would have to accompany him. He would make it up to Curufin then. Somehow.

It would give Curufin time to cool down, too. They could both breathe a little easier until trying to get back to routine again. If that was even possible.

No, avoidance was the best option. 

Besides! Caranthir had work to do. Maedhros had given him a mission. And Caranthir couldn’t very well apologise to Curufin if the Starks cut their heads off.

Caranthir began his investigation.

Interviewing the servants was easy enough most of the time. Caranthir had a working relationship with the majority of them, plenty of friendships forged because he tended to eat with the servants when they were travelling. Despite being a distinguished Lannister knight, Caranthir was still an inheritance-less branch family member. It put him on par with stewards and lady’s maids, and talking to the occasional serving girl or stable boy made him seem approachable. It also helped that he had no friends among the highest classes, his stormy attitude and poor reputation making him something of a pariah. Caranthir put effort into seeming like the kind of person who wouldn’t rat anyone out for complaining, and would actually try to help fix legitimate issues. 

It made having important friends among unimportant people easy.

It also turned out that Celegorm making such a fuss about their friendship to everyone Caranthir met in the North was fortuitous. When he went asking about the day Bran Stark fell from the tower, people assumed it was for Celegorm Snow’s sake. After a few empathetic comments gave him the idea, Caranthir just started saying he was collecting eulogies for the boy. Those that weren’t sympathetic just needed a few stags to change their way of thinking.

Most of his investigation turned up nothing but alibis. No one had been near the tower at the time of Bran Stark’s fall, and most of them remembered hearing about it from someone else, who heard from another, and so on. Crossing off possibilities was better than nothing, but it still wasn’t rewarding work. As the list of suspects shrunk, the prevailing theory that a member of Caranthir’s family was guilty became more likely. He’d admit he was beginning to sweat.

Then he talked to Janna Ruttiger, Cersei’s busybody lady’s maid. 

Janna was from an extremely minor house of knights, but the girl’s mother had long held Cersei’s favor for being utterly amoral and devoted to the queen’s causes. Janna was a slightly nicer girl than her mother, but she was an incurable and skilled gossip. She also had the intelligence and slyness to make that skill useful. But most importantly, Janna had been sweet to Caranthir since she arrived in King’s Landing, well aware that a household knight was all the she could hope for but ambitious enough to shoot for House Lannister’s crown jewel of available knights. She also wasn’t nearly as devoted to Queen Cersei’s privacy as her mother.

“Well, no one knows quite where the queen was when Bran Stark hit the ground. She was supposed to be resting in her chambers, but… well, Ser Jaime wasn’t standing outside her door, and neither of them answered when I knocked to deliver her laundry. But that’s not so odd,” she said, with gleefully flashing eyes and a bite to her lip. “The queen is always going off for alone time. Though Ser Jaime is always there to protect her, so if he’s not where she says she is, neither is Her Majesty.”

Which was just fantastic.

Caranthir didn’t know what evidence Maedhros’s associates had against ‘The Lannisters’ besides Tyrion’s dagger but… Janna’s testimony would be rather damning to people already convinced of their collective guilt. Jaime could have easily stolen into Tyrion’s room and taken the dagger. Hell, Tyrion would have given it to him if Jaime asked!

The only wrench in that theory was why. What would Cersei and Jaime have to gain from murdering a little boy?

More to the point, what dark vice were they hiding that they wanted to protect so dearly?

He didn’t ask Janna, but as she didn’t offer it up, Caranthir doubted she knew. Cersei knew Janna’s habits well, and would never let the girl that close. There was no one besides Jaime she’d let that close. At least… no one she thought dangerous. 

Two days before Maedhros’s promised meeting, Caranthir went to go find Myrcella.

There were really only three places she was allowed to be at any given time, and all of them were carefully supervised by her Septa’s overbearing eye. But Myrcella was a clever girl, and Caranthir just needed to bump into her in the gardens and give a look for her to understand. She hid her mischievous grin in the tulip he’d presented her, and Caranthir knew Myrcella would find her way the antechamber of the Queen’s Ballroom, the place she and twins had made their little headquarters. 

He needed to wait only an hour and half for her to show, which wasn’t too bad considering the sheer amount of oversight and duties she had. Caranthir had always thought the queen was too domineering and protective of Curufin, but that was nothing compared to how she was with the younger boys. Measured against how the princess was treated? Curufin might as well have been positively neglected. 

Caranthir wasn’t sure how Myrcella managed to get out of being punished for all the sneaking she did, but he also wasn’t quite sure he wanted to know what lay behind her sweet smiles.

What mattered was that Myrcella always knew more than anyone gave her credit for, and she was fond of her ‘mad’ cousin despite her mother’s warnings.

“Good afternoon,” she trilled cheerfully as she sat down next to Caranthir on the dusty antechamber’s loveseat. “What can I help you with, Moryo?”

She’d always called him that, because that was what Curufin had called Caranthir when they were children. It wasn’t the smartest move Caranthir had ever made, asking his toddler little brother to call him by a nickname that sounded like nonsense to their collective family. But in Caranthir’s defense, he was six at the time, and very lonely. Not to mention terrified that he really was mad like the grown-ups around him kept whispering about. 

Ambarussa gleefully copied the nickname, and it stuck rather firmly among Caranthir’s young cousins, and even with Willem, Martyn, and Janei. And Jaime. But Jaime called him ‘Moryo’ to be mean.

“I need you to tell me about anything you, Amras, and Amrod saw shortly before Lord Arryn’s passing,” Caranthir said, and he watched Myrcella’s face turn… perhaps mournful or frightened. Nervous even. On an adult he’d call the expression grave, but Myrcella’s cheeks were too round and her eyes were guileless in this moment. She might have been an intelligent little girl, but she was still just a child. 

And she knew something.

Myrcella bit her lip. “Saw something… like what?” she whispered. 

“Something that didn’t seem normal to you. Was there anything different about Lord Arryn’s routine, did the twins think he looked nervous? Was he treating you oddly? Did you and the boys go through Lord Arryn’s stuff? You’re not in trouble, I just know you’ve done it before.”

Caranthir watched unsympathetically as she curled her fingers in her lap. Myrcella wouldn’t meet his eyes, and she kept swinging her legs in an unladylike fashion. Her rosy cheeks had flushed. Myrcella looked up, and she was scared. Caranthir could see how her eyes were narrowed and her lips were curled. People liked to say Myrcella would one day be the perfect image of a princess, one who could stare wide-eyed and tear-filled at a valiant knight. And she probably would be able to, but the expression would be fake. The reality of such emotions was ugly.

“Someone hurt Am and Am’s father. Didn’t they?” she whispered.

“Yes, Myrcella,” Caranthir replied at normal volume, causing her to curl up a little.

Myrcella paused for a few moments, just collecting herself. She was still twiddling with her fingers, and eventually she brought her legs up to sit on. She continued to not look at him.

“I don’t know if it’s… that bad. But yes. There were some odd things,” Myrcella muttered, and Caranthir tried not to hold his breath. He wrapped his arm around her curled-up form to try and encourage her. “For a few weeks before Lord Arryn di—… died. He looked unwell. Sick, but not I-need-to-see-Maester-Pycelle sick. Like I-had-a-really-bad-dream unwell. And he looked like that all the time, so Am and Am and I tried to make him feel better a few times. Everyone was. We brought him flowers, and we tried to play nicely and quietly in his office. He always liked that. Lady Arryn was always bringing him tea to help him stay awake, and even Sweetrobin offered to share his medicine. And he smiled a little each time, and then he would go back to being unwell and working. 

“He was always working, but sometimes he would go off into the city and not come back for a while. Mother and Lady Arryn thought he was being… _unfaithful_. Mother said he might have another baby in the city and he was worried about it. The boys and I started to look into it… and it might be true!” Myrcella started to cry a little, but she recovered admirably.

“Because, because we went through his papers! I’m _sorry_ , but it’s never been any trouble before. ‘Ras says its a way to be in-form-d, and ‘Rod says it makes sure we aren’t caught off guard. It was always just to see when there would be tourneys and carnivals, and when we would go on trips or Father would be away! But this time we were looking at his notes in this big book, and there was this one scrap of parchment. It was all crumbled and the ink was stained like it’d been written very fast. And it said… it said, _‘bastards’_.”

Myrcella covered her eyes with her small fingers, face completely flushed. She looked ashamed of having said such a dirty word. Caranthir gently whispered reassurances and rubbed her shoulder, trying to cajole the girl into speaking more. He was desperate, almost at the edge of his seat to see if there was anything else.

 _Bastards_ , that could explain everything about Lord Arryn. He had a bastard child with a woman in the city, and the man known for his ‘high honour’ was so ashamed… well he might have just poisoned himself!

But it didn’t explain Bran Stark. 

_Dammit, why can this never be easy?_

Myrcella hiccuped a little, but she finally heeded his soft pleas of ‘please, please, anything else’. “The parchment,” she choked out while dabbing daintily at her eyes with Carnathir’s handkerchief, “below… that, it said— Oh, Moryo, it’s so vulgar. It said, ‘who’s the father?’ Could Lord Arryn not have known? And—”

Her face scrunched up again, like she was frightened of what would come out of her mouth if she relaxed her facial muscles even a fraction. 

“Myrcella,” Caranthir prompted at a growl, and she cracked instantly.

“Oh, Moryo! Lord Arryn also kept asking me about Uncle Jaime! Why, why? At first I didn’t notice, it was just questions like what our picnic was like or where Uncle was, but then Am and Am pointed it out. And then I noticed how he asked me and Tommen all the time. Moryo, could the baby be Uncle Jaime’s? Were Lord Arryn and Uncle Jaime fighting over a lady? It was so awful, Moryo, and we wanted to go into town and see if we could meet the lady, but then! Lord Arryn died! And he wasn’t sick-sick, and ‘Ras was so angry. Something bad happened. And then Am and Am were sent away! To Uncle Stannis. Oh, Uncle Stannis, he was so much meaner than normal right before Lord Arryn died, like he knew we were looking at what we shouldn’t have. Are Am and Am in trouble? Are we in trouble? Did we kill Lord Arryn? Is Uncle Jaime going to _die?_ ”

It devolved into sobbing. Those worries and theories that had likely haunted the child for months had come pouring out of Myrcella all at once, and now she didn’t know what to do with herself. Caranthir couldn’t say he quite knew what to do with that mess either, besides pull the crying child into his lap and rock her back and forth; the same way he’d held Curufin that awful night Caranthir was knighted, and a million times before. 

He whispered platitudes, saying over and over again, “Of course you didn’t hurt Lord Arryn, nothing you did was bad. You’re not in trouble, Amras and Amrod are fine, I promise. Jaime’s going to be fine. I promise, I promise.” Eventually, Myrcella’s weeping stalled, but every time she regained a little composure, Caranthir just felt worse and worse.

He was more so half-lying than being deliberately false, but the fact of the matter was that he _just didn’t know_. How could he say that everyone was going to be okay? He couldn’t, but he did. Because the only other option was to look her in the eyes and say that everything she feared could be true and come true, everything was hell, a lot more people were going to die before this was over. 

And he couldn’t do that, even if it might be kinder to her when the other foot dropped.

 _Dammit_ , he thought with a grimace, remembering all of Curufin’s complaints the other night. Caranthir hated when Curufin was right.

“Shhh, Myrcella, it’s okay. Don’t cry, the twins are fine, I promise. You’ve done nothing to hurt anyone, Myrcella, I promise that, I promise.” She hiccupped a little, and nodded along to his words. Caranthir took his crumbled handkerchief from her twisting hands, and went about cleaning away the tears and snot. Her whole face was rubbed red. Sending her back to her Septa like this would be a nightmare. 

Caranthir ran a hand through her immaculate blonde curls, and tilted her head so she would meet his heavy gaze. “Thank you for telling me this,” he said gravely, and Myrcella’s face scrunched again but she didn’t flinch. “This is very important information. You’ve done so well, and I imagine this has been a hard time for you. I bet it’s been lonely without the twins around.”

“So lonely,” she moaned, the words all but falling out. She probably hadn’t been allowed to admit she missed the twins. She could never complain about their disappearance from her life, and Caranthir doubted Myrcella got a proper goodbye. Not to mention, that they were taken from her in such a frightening way probably exacerbated all those scary thoughts that had come upon her. 

“Aye,” Caranthir replied with an empathetic nod. “And you’ve held up remarkably. I need you to know that there’s nothing… Well, I don’t want you to worry anymore, okay?” 

She nodded, but bit her lip. “But someone still hurt Lord Arryn,” she whispered, and Caranthir wished she was just a little bit less precocious.

“You’re right. But I’m going to worry about that now. Me and other adults are going to worry about it, and we’re going to fix everything.” Caranthir took a deep breath. “We’ll protect you and the twins. The person who killed Lord Arryn will be found.”

She nodded, this time more firmly. She looked truly relieved and Caranthir hated himself just a little. 

He slid her off his lap, and combed at her hair and fix her dress. Her face was still puffy and her eyes bloodshot. It would be his head if Myrcella showed up to her mother looking like this mess, but there might be some room to maneuver this situation. The illicit shuffling of royal children was one thing Caranthir was good at. This was a problem he could actually solve.

“Myrcella, is anyone expecting you?”

“Not until my dance lessons later.”

“All right,” Caranthir sighed. “I can trust that you won’t tell anyone about this conversation, and about what you told me, right? This is very important, Myrcella, no one else. Do you promise?”

“Of course.” She sounded almost offended. Caranthir supposed she did spend an awful lot of time lying to the adults around her, or making careful omissions. Clever child, made all the cleverer by association with Caranthir’s demon little brothers.

“Alright then. In that case, Myrcella, I want you to go and find your brother. Spend some time with Curufin, okay?” She made a displeased face, and Caranthir couldn’t blame her. Curufin had never been the best older brother on the face of the earth, but since deciding his siblings weren’t actually his siblings, he’d been a truly remarkable brat. At best, Curufin had been dismissive towards Myrcella and Tommen for months.

“He’s been boorish,” she muttered petulantly. “Mother says he’s too much like Father, and we shouldn’t follow his example. We’re not to talk to him when he’s being bad.”

Caranthir— despite all his lingering ire at Curufin— felt an intense rush of indignation and anger. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Joffrey’s more boorish than Curufin, and no one’s ever said to keep away from him.” 

Myrcella just shrugged, but they both knew it to be true. In fact, everyone knew that for as petulant as Curufin could be, he was nothing compared to the little monster Joffrey was. Everyone knew but Cersei, that is, who never saw fault in any of her children but Curufin. _Too much like his father indeed. And you hate it._

“Just do this for me, Myrcella. Even if he’s sulking or reading, just sit with Curufin okay? And… and I want you to tell him what you’ve told me.”

She looked inquisitive and more than a little skeptical, but in the end Myrcella didn’t argue. Whatever her reservations about trusting Curufin— be they the ban Caranthir just gave her, Curufin’s attitude, her mother’s influence, or natural doubt— she kept them to herself. Of course, she knew the _irrefutable_ fact that Caranthir Lannister told his favourite cousin everything. So even if she didn’t tell, he would. Of course.

Caranthir really hated when Curufin was right.

With a final pat to Myrcella’s head, Caranthir set her swift little feet free. He had no idea where Curufin was, but Myrcella would find him. She was good at that. 

Then, when he was well and truly sure she was gone, Caranthir reeled back his leg and sent it crashing through a side table that shattered upon impact. Then he kicked the remains a few more times. This situation could not possibly get worse.

Lord Arryn’s work, bastards, Jaime, Stannis Baratheon.

Caranthir did not like the conclusions he was drawing, and he doubted Maedhros would either. Their next meeting was meant to be the day after tomorrow, but Caranthir still hadn’t received word on when or where. Though, that rude inconvenience was beginning to look like Maedhros’s standard procedure.

How the hell did it turn out that Caranthir was the only brother with any manners? 

In the hours before his undetermined meeting with Maedhros, Caranthir went to making his lists. Unfortunately, all the testimonies he’d composed were adding up spectacularly well. Cersei not where she said she was, Jaime no doubt with her, and Tyrion allegedly in the library. With no witnesses. None of the servants could account for any of the Lannister siblings, and only gave rumours on where they were supposed to be. It would be so easy for all three to have been in that tower doing anything from abusing Milk of the Poppy to planning a murder. Or discussing their murder of Jon Arryn.

The only thing that didn’t fit was the dagger, which Caranthir couldn’t believe Tyrion would be stupid enough to use. But Tyrion would never have done something as drastic as sending an assassin after a comatose boy either. Someone else would have to be that risk-prone and thorough. Cersei certainly was when pushed, and she would be plenty able and willing to cut their losses at Tyrion. Jaime was less likely… But Caranthir wasn’t sure how deep this went. How could he possibly guess at Jaime’s motives? 

Someone had to know more.

Someone did. _And now Jon Arryn’s dead._

Caranthir buried his face in his hands. He gave a long, exaggerated moan, and fought the urge to write to Uncle Tywin. 

That was a bad idea on so many levels, but it was also so tempting. The only person capable of reigning in his children was Tywin, and he would put a stop to any foolish plotting in an instant. If Caranthir wrote right now saying that they were under suspicion from the rebellion’s old alliance, that he thought those suspicions were correct, and that they were all about to go down for this, Uncle would fix the mess in an instant. 

The one who hired the assassin would be found instantly. It would be someone like a butler, someone from a minor house with some money but no clout. Bran Stark had caught him engaged with a servant girl, the culprit panicked and he pushed the boy from the window. The idea that the child could wake up and tell terrified the sniveling coward, and he hired the assassin to make sure the boy could never speak of who tried to murder him. It would wrap up so nicely. Everyone would know it was false, but who would question Tywin Lannister?

Caranthir wouldn’t.

But he couldn’t ask Uncle Tywin to fix this mess… because Maedhros wanted real justice for his nephew. And it was much, much harder to deny his brother than a stranger; even if Caranthir still wasn’t sure if Maedhros was really the Elf he once knew, or just a concept he was projecting on.

Caranthir collapsed his head onto his desk, and banged his hand on the table. 

He blinked as another bang followed the noise. Instead of being made by his limbs hitting furniture, the noise came from the hallway. When he opened the door, a serving girl stood there with her hand stretched out. 

“Milord asked me to give this to you at this hour exactly,” she said proudly, then went on her way as soon as Caranthir took the letter she pushed towards him. It was from Maedhros, naturally.

_Meet me in the North Courtyard of the Red Keep at a quarter to noon. Dress nice; not in all black! Bring your manners._

Caranthir hated Maedhros.

He arrived in the North Courtyard at approximately half an hour to noon. He scowled fiercely and wore a dark red and grey tunic, because he wasn’t an imbecile and _only the Night’s Watch wears all black, Nelyo!_ Caranthir had elected not to bring his manners, and instead had his compilation of research folded neatly in his pockets. He was also in a foul mood.

Maedhros arrived exactly on time, decked in finery and Tully colors, and positively jolly.

Caranthir wanted to tell his brother that he hated him, but instead he asked, “Why and how are we meeting in the Red Keep?”

“Let’s talk while we walk,” Maedhros replied, placing a hand on Caranthir’s back in order to guide him. He almost wanted to snap at Maedhros that he didn’t need to be led around the castle he grew up in and _how do you know where you’re going?_ But Caranthir decided he didn’t need to make too much of a scene with all the eyes and ears surrounding them. Instead, he elbowed Maedhros in the ribs to get him to talk.

“All right, I _understand_. Calm down, you violent child. I think it’s important that I take you to meet a friend of ours.” 

Caranthir raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he inquired, keeping his tone light. But when Maedhros looked at him, his expression was grave. 

“Please, Caranthir. Just trust me on this,” Maedhros whispered, and Caranthir wanted to say ‘of course’. But the doubt niggled, insidious and ancient. _Why are you being cagey? What’s going on in your head, Nelyo?_

But those weren’t questions they could answer right now.

“Alright, Nelyo. If you say so.” It sounded hollow to Caranthir’s ears, but Maedhros smiled in response.

“Thank you,” Maedhros said on the exhale, charming face so palatable and eyes so bright. Caranthir couldn’t remember, was this who his brother was before they crossed the sea or was this who Nelyafinwë should have grown to be? He felt like a stranger, so Caranthir would wager the later. 

But before Caranthir could consider that too long, they took a sharp turn towards a familiar staircase and Maedhros kept talking.

“We are going to be having tea with the Hand of the King.”

“I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“Tea with Ned. It seems like the best course of action, just to get friendly and maintain our story. Don’t worry about it too much, and remember that we’re friends through Celegorm. I just want the two of you to meet.”

“But this—” Wasn’t the type of conversation for them to be having right here and now.

That was why Maedhros had contacted him so late and with so few details! He knew Caranthir would refuse. But instead of running far away from Ned Stark—the man whose son his cousins might have pushed from a tower— Caranthir was already climbing the stairs to the Tower of the Hand, expected for tea in a matter of minutes and with no opportunities for maneuvering in sight. It was so carefully planned, dare he say brilliant, that Caranthir was furious. But he was also impressed enough that he couldn’t ruin the scheme with a scene, so he settled for growling, “There’d better be some compensation for this later.” _And a bloody explanation._

Nine years worth of secrecy and careful maneuvering. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other in nine years, they’d made sure no one could connect them to each other. All those excuses, all the concerns, and nights of isolation. Loneliness. And it had worked. They had maintained their loyalties! And now Maedhros was taking Caranthir to have tea with Ned Stark, perhaps the second most Lannister-hostile entity in the Seven Kingdoms. Maglor Sand, another person Caranthir Lannister shouldn’t know, might as well have invited him to Oberyn Martell’s nameday party for all the sense this made to the outside eye.

And those eyes were watching.

What message was this sending?

The Tower of the Hand was sparer than the last time Caranthir had been here. It was obvious the Arryns had moved out and the Starks were just moving in. That being said, Caranthir doubted there would be too much decoration added in the following months and years. If Winterfell was anything to go by, the Starks were minimalists, with all their sensibilities focused on remaining warm. Their furs wouldn’t be needed down here.

They were greeted by Lord Poole, who Caranthir knew well from their time living in such close quarters with the Starks. Poole seemed to remember Caranthir as well, if the widening of eyes was anything to go by. Remembered him as the black-haired, dour Lannister always looming over the prince’s shoulder no doubt, but if Poole had any objections he kept them to himself.

The steward led them to Lord Stark’s office, which was poorly lit and small and not the kind of place anyone else in King’s Landing would host tea. Not even if they were trying to be private. Stark was known for straightforwardness, though, and he didn’t seem the type to entertain people’s sensibilities, nor any nonsense. 

But given his surprised expression when Caranthir walked through the door, the Hand of the King had just been given a very unappreciated helping of Maedhros’s nonsense. 

It made Caranthir feel just a little bit better.

“Ned,” Maedhros greeted, managing to maintain his polite affability despite how stiff and wary the two other men in the room were. “Thank you so much for having us today. I want to introduce you to my friend, Ser Caranthir Lannister. He can help us with our current predicament.”

Stark gave Caranthir a passing nod that the Lannister returned, but his attention remained on Maedhros. The question went unasked for propriety’s sake, but it hung heavy in the air. Maedhros replied.

“I’d trust Caranthir with my life.”

Caranthir’s face twisted uncomfortably, and he tried not to be touched by that proclamation. He couldn’t read his brother, so he couldn’t say if the sentiment was as real or as fake as anything else he’d seen. But it was sort of nice to hear. Amid everything, between how difficult this was… That Maedhros would still trust Caranthir to guard his flank was… gratifying.

“Very well,” Lord Stark intoned gravely. “Then we have much to discuss, my lords.”

‘Tea’ with Stark turned out to be ‘sitting around the Hand’s desk without any cakes or sandwiches’. A servant brought them actual tea, but it certainly wasn’t the lavish afternoon meal Caranthir’s mother would put on for her friends once a week. Aunt Gemma’s special order tea blends— with and without ‘something special for the adults’— weren’t on the menu either. It seemed Caranthir hadn’t needed to wear his nice trousers.

But Stark proved easy enough to work with, so Caranthir didn’t feel too disappointed.

The Hand listened quietly as Caranthir recounted what he had learned from Janna Ruttiger and Myrcella, though he was careful to keep the princess’s name out of it. Instead, Caranthir just claimed to have spoken to a friend of Lord Arryn’s twins who had been snooping with them. He did mention that Lord Arryn had been questioning the royal children on Ser Jaime, something he passed off as his own observations; in truth, he was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t actually picked up on that.

When Caranthir finished recounting his findings, Stark’s only comment was, “Jon Arryn would never father a bastard. Not before his marriage, and certainly not after.”

Maedhros breezily said, “Of course,” but Caranthir raised a rather rude eyebrow.

He had spent an exorbitant amount of time with Celegorm’s new squire, after all, and people said Lord Stark would never dishonor his wife either. Caranthir didn’t believe that reassurance for a second, but what Caranthir believed didn’t matter. Only Stark’s opinion did. Caranthir was the one fighting to convince _these people_ — the Starks, the Tullys, the Arryns— that his family wasn’t entirely made up of child-killers and cold-blooded murderers.

Of course that wasn’t looking feasible. Lord Stark seemed wholly convinced of the Lannisters’ involvement, and Caranthir’s rather damning evidence could have only assuaged any doubts he might have had. Though Stark nodded along when Caranthir gave his passionate character defense of Tyrion, he could tell the man thought Caranthir was deceived or in denial. Stark looked pitying. But of course he would be. What was more important to the wolves than the pack, the fish the school, the birds the flock? Their houses valued family and honor. Why would a Lannister try to frame another Lannister?

It was inconceivable to Lord Stark. But Caranthir’s cousins had tried to see him ejected from King’s Landing on account of poisoning Curufin’s mind. Cersei had thrown him in the dungeon, and Uncle Tywin would only protect him as long as he was useful. Even Lancel would toss away Caranthir in a second if he thought it would help his position. The Lannisters were united against the rest of the world, but inside many would destroy another to gain position. No individual mattered more than the family name, the family power, and the family standing.

Caranthir knew that. And when Stark said, “This has given us a place to start, but we still don’t know the nature of the feud between Lord Arryn and Ser Jaime that the girl recounts. I will follow this lead more before taking our suspicions to the king, and potentially defaming an innocent man. Thank you for this, Ser Lannister,” Caranthir knew he would have to cut some losses.

But even if _only_ Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion went down, an already unacceptable scenario… It destabilized everything.

It was now obvious why Maedhros had brought him here. Exonerating Carnathir and making him seem valuable to the Starks… fixed several of problems. Not only did it offer some protection to his family— Kevan, Dorna, Lancel, the twins, Janei— but if the heir to Casterly Rock was tried for murder, it put Caranthir in the perfect position to be named Lord of the Westerlands. It was brilliant and insidious and Uncle Tywin would be positively proud, because Caranthir didn’t doubt for a second the man would sacrifice all his children for the sake of House Lannister’s continued survival and power. Caranthir also didn’t think that Stark and Maedhros really knew the full depth of what they were doing.

And he could justify that ignorance from _honourable Ned Stark_ , but Maedhros? What was he playing at?

He had brought Caranthir here! But from the way he bit at his lip when violence was mentioned and how he smiled guilelessly and encouragingly every time Caranthir said something that pleased Stark, he didn’t think Maedhros realised just what a massive conspiracy he was creating. They kept talking like there would just be a trial and everything would resolve itself, justice served and the dead avenged. No… Stark and Maedhros thought they were the valiant heroes in this scenario, bringing murderers to justice and uprooting corruption. But it wasn’t true. They were just another pair of self-interested players in this game. And they didn’t know it.

Caranthir was going to be sick.

Where was the Maedhros who so easily cooled the conflict between the Noldor without giving an actual inch of power? Didn’t he organize the biggest military effort the Elves had ever known, and probably would have done even more if his brothers weren’t such morons? Hadn’t this man meticulously planned for every action and reaction a move would cause, from how he dressed to which clan of Laiquendi they traded with? Where was that man? 

Or maybe Maedhros was just as clever as he ever was, and Caranthir was the one being played for a fool. But that was the problem. Caranthir didn’t think he was on the inside anymore. Because as much as he hadn’t necessarily liked the version of his brother in Beleriand who’d had no pride and very little empathy, he’d respected him. Caranthir had trusted him. 

And though a shudder ripped through his body when he admitted it to himself, Caranthir didn’t trust Maedhros Tully.

Maybe it was because Carnathir was just too _Lannister_ to feel at ease plotting against his own family— or not Lannister enough as it was. Maybe there really was something different about Maedhros and his instincts weren’t lying to him. Either way… Caranthir was suddenly very aware that he was stuck wading water between two equally deep pools without the steadfast helping hand he’d expected.

He let out a harsh breath. 

Then, Caranthir jumped nearly out of his skin when a touch suddenly fell on his shoulder. He looked up to see Stark’s blank expression, and Maedhros’s perfectly composed concern.

“Caranthir?” he enquired.

“Sorry, sorry,” Caranthir replied, carefully shaking his brother off and sitting up straight. “Just thinking too hard, bad habit. I’m… worried. That’s all.”

Maedhros made a sympathetic sound, and Caranthir tried to look into his eyes. Maedhros had always been so good at doing what other people wanted of him. He could read people’s body cues almost as well as Celegorm, but Maedhros actually knew how to respond. He heard the subtlety in people’s words like Caranthir, and he could twist them back in turn. He could act affable and uncomplicated, without being shallow. But Maedhros’s eyes were always deep. He could put on all the expressions and smiles he wanted, but there was a spark in his eyes that Maedhros just couldn’t hide. It made him seem reliable. It made people trust him.

But maybe that was really why they were never close. Caranthir was scared of his brother’s mind; of what he would find if pulled back those layers. He had been too much of a coward to try and understand the seemingly perfect, safe person his eldest brother was, but too perceptive to believe the lie. And that had never been a particularly admirable or even satisfactory situation, but… 

But when Caranthir look at Maedhros now there seemed to be something more artificial about him; shallower, intentionally so. Every word Maedhros said with that lessened reservoir came off like he was faking at being the person he once was; the person Caranthir expected him to be. 

_This is so unfair._

Caranthir grimaced rather dramatically and shook his head, and Maedhros pulled back. He looked almost hurt, and Caranthir felt a shot of shame pierce him and spread its poison.

Surprisingly, it was Lord Stark who drew them away from the moment. His face remained stoic and hard, but his voice was honest and surprisingly… tender. “Ser Lannister,” he said in his typically grave voice, “I understand your concern. I imagine these proceedings put you in a difficult position. But, I swear to you on my honour that I will see to it that the innocent are utterly protected, and the guilty will not suffer grievously.”

“Thank you,” Caranthir said honestly, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “But please. Don’t swear anything.”

The moment hung heavily in the air. 

“I think that’s all that can be reasonably done today. We won’t take up any more of your time, Lord Stark,” Maedhros said grimly, and it was somewhat worse than if he’d seemed none the wiser to any implications. Caranthir got to his feet quickly, feeling sick and stupid. He fought the childish urge to cling to his brother, cry his grief out, and beg for forgiveness, like he had been caught playing with Father’s tools again.

He really needed to talk to Curufin. 

Lord Stark stood as well, and proclaimed, “I will escort you from the Tower, my lords.”

They quietly walked down the hall, Maedhros and Lord Stark whispering about the next meeting and what each would work on going forward. When Caranthir inquired if there was anything expected of him, Lord Stark was the one who shook his head. 

“Though the king and council have not announced it yet, you will be busy with your duties to Prince Curufin soon. In the meantime you are welcome to your own devices, but your service is already appreciated, Ser Lannister.”

Caranthir just nodded, but there was still much to do. He wasn’t sure if he could afford to take Stark’s advice.

To exit the Tower of the Hand, they needed to pass through the parlour. But they could not do that quietly, because, as they neared the door to Stark’s entertaining room, voices could be heard from inside. Specifically, the high-pitched words of a young woman. Caranthir suspected the Stark girls were holding council in the parlour, perhaps with their minders and a few other young ladies.

Instead, he saw Curufin sitting across from Sansa Stark and her Septa. 

All three glanced up when Caranthir’s party entered, and he felt a small bit of guilty satisfaction when Curufin went ashen; he was still mad, after all. The prince shot to his feet, his terrified gaze fixed firmly on Lord Stark at first. But then his eyes slid to look at where Maedhros stood in front of Caranthir, and Curufin swayed a little. The look on his face stopped being funny.

Caranthir pushed passed both lords to make his way towards the boy.

“Curufin,” he said as he drew close, “What are you doing here?”

Sansa Stark made a tiny noise at Caranthir’s casual hand on the prince’s shoulder, but when he looked up her expression was merely a little wondering and mostly pleased. She practically glowed. 

“Father,” she chirped happily, “Prince Curufin came over for tea!”

“I hope that is acceptable with you, my lord,” Curufin interjected quickly. “I meant to ask your permission, but Lord Poole said you were occupied.” Caranthir wasn’t surprised to see how polite and nervous he was. He had been skittish around Lord Stark since the first fiasco in Winterfell, and seeing how the man yelled at and quieted the king so easily had given Curufin a healthy respect for him. Why, he was almost as frightened of Lord Stark as he was of little Lady Sansa.

“I thought it would be fine for the youths to talk, my lord. If there’s any trouble, I’m to blame,” the Septa continued. 

They stood in silence for a time, just watching Lord Stark impassively deliberate. At length, he said, “I see no problem.”

Sansa exclaimed her thanks, while Curufin mumbled his. Caranthir gave a rough squeeze to his shoulder, and Curufin repeated his gratitude again, this time a little louder. 

“This is lovely,” Maedhros suddenly said. “It is an unexpected honour to meet you here today, Your Grace.”

Curufin didn’t reply, and all the blood suddenly went rushing back to his face. His expression scrunched, and for a moment Caranthir thought he might start yelling or crying. Maybe both. But Curufin only evenly replied, “And you, Lord Maedhros. Forgive me, I know you haven't even introduced yourself. But your reputation precedes you.”

“No apologies necessary, Your Grace,” Maedhros intoned, a slight, grieving smile the only expression on his face. His eyes looked dead. “I’m afraid I must be going, though. I’m to have dinner with an old friend, and he loathes when people are late. Please excuse me.”

One of the servants— who had been standing at the ready since they entered the parlour— approached with Maedhros’s cloak. He prepared himself to leave, but before he could make for the door, Maedhros paused.

“Oh! I almost forgot. Caranthir,” Maedhros called, though he was obviously looking at both Caranthir and Curufin when he spoke, addressing them both. “I’ve been meaning to apologise to you all. I’m terribly sorry for all the times I’ve been insufferably superior and smug. I see now that it’s unbearable to listen to. Anyway, have a nice day! Farewell, Caranthir, Your Grace. Be sure to root for me if I don’t see you before the tourney, Sansa. I’ll be in contact, Ned.”

Then he was gone. 

_Surely,_ Caranthir thought, _killing him would be an acceptable version of kinslaying._

“I suppose we should be going as well,” Curufin said. “Caranthir?”

“Right.”

They gave their well-wishes and goodbyes, and politely thanked the Starks for the tea. Curufin also showed his gratitude for the little cakes and sandwiches, and Caranthir felt cheated.

“Thank you for the visit, Your Grace,” Sansa Stark said in farewell, and Curufin nodded back, though he couldn’t meet her eyes. She didn’t seem distressed or put out though, so Caranthir let it go.

Lord Stark didn’t say anything, but he did give Caranthir a considering look. At length he inclined his head, and Caranthir returned the gesture. He dearly hoped Eddard Stark was as straightforward as everyone claimed, because Caranthir couldn’t read him at all.

Then, they left.

He and Curufin walked silently down the stairs, until Caranthir just couldn’t hold back from asking any longer.

“So…” he started, but was quickly cut off.

“I wasn’t there long! We were just talking a little, because I was— Well, I…” Curufin huffed and turned his head away, sticking his nose in the air. Caranthir almost laughed at him, but he was halted by a sudden realisation. That imperious expression used to be so comical on Curufin, and it still was to an extent. But Curufin was taller now. His face was also a little slimmer, and his jaw wider. Halted on the stairs, Curufin on the one above him, Caranthir had only just noticed. It wasn’t much height or difference, but it was enough for Caranthir to catch just a glimpse of the man his little brother would grow to resemble. It lent the boy some weight. 

The growth hurt to see, but not as much as Caranthir would have expected it to. Not after spending two weeks agonising over having used this child’s wife and son against him like a weapon. This… was normal. Growth was normal, and the memories were normal, and… and Curufin had the right to become whoever he wanted to be. Even if Caranthir hated that man.

Caranthir was pulled from contemplation, after a few seconds, though, when Curufin continued. 

His voice was more subdued, and it held a note of sincerity, though he still bled with false bravado. 

“I’ll have you know,” Curufin said, without looking at Caranthir, “that I have taken a look at my behaviour in an effort to exorcise anything ‘childish’. And I’ve determined that most of what you have to say is nonsense, but…” Curufin wrapped his arms around his stomach before continuing. 

“The other night, I thought about Tyelperinquar, like you suggested— Don’t interrupt!” Caranthir closed his mouth, apology resting just on the tip of his tongue. “Just listen. Anyway, I thought about Tyelperinquar, and about Itarillë. You see… Turukano and I would have to make them bite out apologies to each other, even while we were glaring at one another over their heads. And it was so ridiculous to me, the whole charade was intentionally false, and it wasn’t like Tyelpë needed Itarillë around. 

“But sometimes… Tyelperinquar would just apologise naturally, even for accidents and things he never would have been scolded for. He did it just to make her stop crying, or soothe ruffled edges, or to make himself feel better. And he kept doing it when he… when he grew up, and I still never understood. I suppose I’ve always thought that apologising was a crutch for those less strong in their convictions, a way of rewinding and not owning one’s actions. But… I’m starting to think my son was…” Curufin shook his lowered head vigorously.

 _You’re so close!_ Caranthir wanted to scream, but he was too stunned to interrupt before Curufin continued.

“So, anyway, I reasoned that I owed Lady Sansa an apology for avoiding her, and for the entire disaster at Ruby Ford. And for yelling at her that night. I was frustrated with Joffrey, and the queen and king, and I knew that I could affect Sansa. Even if my words couldn’t get through to them, I knew I could hurt and influence her. And it was wrong, so I apologised…”

They breathed for a few moments, and Caranthir could visibly see Curufin gathering himself. At length, Curufin squeezed his eyes shut, then snapped them open again.

“And I owe you an apology, as well,” he snapped, sounding almost as angry as he did repentant. “I was influenced by the same impulses when I said those things to you in Winterfell, but they were not only uncalled for and unfair, but intentionally cruel. You… were doing what you thought was right. Trying to help. I, conversely, didn’t treat you in a way I can be proud of, or justify. I don’t want to say I retract what I said, because that’s cowardly. But I acknowledge that I was in the wrong, and I want to make amends.” Curufin finally met his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Moryo.”

Caranthir bit his lip, and he knew his already ruddy face had flushed to capacity. All the malice fled him at once, and he could only think, _thank you, thank you_ ; though he didn’t know who he was grateful to. Curufin apologised! Curufin cared enough to put in effort to apologise. He was trying! 

Caranthir let out a ragged, wet breath.

“I’m sorry too, Curvo,” he exclaimed, already preparing the long winded speech he’d composed in the bath. But he never got to start, let alone finish reciting it. 

“I—”

“Stop!” Curufin said suddenly, a look of absolute panic on his face. To make sure Caranthir couldn’t barrel past his objection, Curufin brought his hands up to Caranthir’s face and squished his cheeks together. “You already apologized,” he panted, looking confused and more than a little chastised. “With Myrcella.”

Caranthir blinked. _Myrcella?_ he thought, before remembering how he asked her to go find her brother. How he told her to… confide in Curufin. 

Was that what Curufin cared about? Had he even been hurt that Caranthir brought up Aikanaris and Tyelperinquar? If he had actually considered and acted on Caranthir’s words… apparently not.

_We are a stupid pair._

Caranthir laughed shakily, and took ahold of Curufin’s wrists. “By the Seven,” he said, “you’re such an idiot.”

“I’m sorry?” Curufin squawked, blushing profusely in outrage. “I thought we were having an emotional— ack!”

Caranthir suddenly reached out and gripped tight around Curufin’s shoulders and pulled the boy close to his chest, nearly crushing him. Amid the indignant squeaks and struggles, Caranthir leaned in close. He whispered, “You’re such a troublesome little brother.”

And Curufin relaxed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long is the buzz word for this chapter! Long wait for me to post this (I'm terribly sorry), long chapter (almost twice my standard length), and long attempts to run around dealing with emotions. The last one was a stretch. But my point still stands! 
> 
> In other news, Caranthir is Phoenix Wright (he's got a lot of OBJECTION!'s to these turns of events), and I think Maedhros is kinda like Edgeworth here. Additionally, Caranthir's love language is words, and Curufin's is action, so write that down. Neither of them understand feelings, but neither does Mae, so it's (not) fine. Speaking of which, what the hell is Maedhros doing? What they hell is Caranthir going to do with Maedhros? Should he do anything? Only time will tell.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I know many of y'all want to see Ambarussa, but we have one more pitstop before them. It's the... Tourney of the Hand! If you've enjoyed what I've been doing up to this point, please feel free to leave liberal comments and kudos!


	8. Curufin II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curufin does some reflecting, and then practices self-care. It's super effective!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to she_who_recs for weeding through this garden of grammatical and errors and over grown sentences.

“Ow!”

Curufin’s whole world narrowed down to that small space, and he doubled over to crouch on the ground and ineffectively paw at his aching toes through his boot. He rubbed and hissed as the pain grew less white-hot, and slowly he shook the ringing out of his ears. The breastplate cast had hit the floor with a deafening sound that was more painful than the actual collision with his foot, and now it was settled under the table he’d collided with. The solid iron tool didn’t seem broken, which was a relief. Curufin could handle the broken foot, but if Mott banned him from the forge, he wouldn’t know what to do.

“You can just ask for help, you know that, right?”

Curufin looked up from nursing his bruised toes and pride to glower at Gendry.

The bigger boy rolled his eyes and with ease he picked up the breastplate cast that Curufin had struggled under so much. Gendry carried it over to the storage room in the far hallway, settled it into place, and was already walking back towards the forge to find the back part before Curufin could bear to stand. He fought the urge to sit on the ground and pout. 

Gendry was of a similar age as Curufin, perhaps a few months older at most, but he towered over the smaller boy. His arms were muscled, the weight he could carry enormous, and he looked much older than fourteen. Girls were very fond of Gendry. It was a rather unfair situation as far as Curufin was concerned, because while Gendry would just get bigger and stronger, Curufin… wouldn’t. Or at least, he wouldn’t reach Gendry’s bulk.

He was getting taller! Caranthir seemed sure that Curufin would hit a growth spurt soon, and then he would likely have another late in his maturation like last time. But he would never match Gendry— who was already Celegorm’s height and nearly a decade his junior— nor be as strong, no matter how much time was spent in the forge. Inheritance was just working against him in this instance. 

It made the inevitable weigh heavily on his mind. 

Elves did not need mass or bulk for leverage, and they didn’t strain under the weight of their metals like Men. Even being of slight build and stature, Curufin had never encountered any trouble in his work. Elves, after all, were constructed perfectly; light and strong in equal measure. The hits of Curufin’s hammer had been as powerful as any other, then. 

But in this Mannish form, Curufin’s strength was lagging behind already. Training his limbs when he first came to Mott had been a trial he was no longer sure how he had passed. Mott and Gendry had certainly thought the small child trying to haul heavy materials and wield a hammer that was wider than his chest would fail and go crying home. He hadn’t, comforted at the time with the ‘knowledge’ that he would grow eventually; as tall and as strong and as sturdy as _Father_ , Curufin used to think.

Curufin would laugh at the ignorant, younger version of himself if he wasn’t so sickened. 

Now, he _knew_ what his grown form would look like. Curufin would perhaps be somewhat tall, but nothing to match the Baratheons. And he would be slim. 

He had seen Celegorm’s new, broad form; reborn as a Man, his physicality had shifted. He looked like someone who spent all his time in the wilds, matching the power of beasts. But Tyelkormo had always been broader than Curufin. Quite a bit so, but only by Elven standards. Their easy strength meant it wasn’t in their nature to grow large muscles or need greater leverage.

Curufin’s body might grow a bit more Mannish and wide to accommodate the natural weakness, but it wouldn’t be much. Just as Maedhros, Celegorm, and the thrice-damned twins had been broader than their waifish brother once before, so would they be this time. Curufin had always been and would always be lean.

It was a disaster.

Men needed wide shoulders to swing hammers accordingly. There was no debate around that fact. Curufin could train his muscles his entire life, and he might make up some of the distance. But the fact of the matter was that he had never been built with bulk in mind, and it was very suddenly a life-ruining problem. One day, somehow, in some manner… Curufin was going to hit a wall in his work. And no amount of skill would make up for the physical deficit. 

The situation was not ideal. In fact it was far from ideal. Actually, it was infuriating, so much so that some days Curufin wanted to break things, and scream his frustration at any who would listen. Sometimes he was so terrified by the prospect he could feel his sense of self unraveling.

But Curufin had never once turned from a challenge. He didn’t know how. He just wouldn’t know what else to do with himself. So he had to try. Even if it meant banging his head against an impenetrable wall until the strain became to much for his body— but never his will— to handle. Death had always seemed preferable to defeat.

Curufin eventually drew himself up from the floor and limped his way back towards the messy tables to help with the cleaning and organizing. The process didn’t end up taking much longer than normal, as the pain leaked from Curufin’s foot eventually and Gendry easily picked up his slack in the meantime. Gendry left Curufin to sweep the ash away on his own, and came back a few minutes later with a large cup of Mott’s strong brandy, the kind that they technically weren’t supposed to know about. 

Though he clenched his jaw at the pity, Curufin couldn’t help but be a little grateful. Gendry was too straightforward to resent.

Gendry wordlessly passed the pewter cup to Curufin, and he drank deeply, only sputtering a little bit at the burn. He couldn’t take it all down, though. Curufin tried for another sip and found the second taste even more revolting than the first, so he wordlessly handed it back to Gendry. The other boy grinned, and Curufin had a sneaking suspicion he’d purposefully poured more than was strictly needed for pain management purposes.

But all Curufin said as Gendry drank the rest was a quietly muttered, “Thank you.”

“How ‘bout instead of thanking me, Fin, you just save everyone some trouble and don’t try and do stupid things.”

Curufin flinched but didn’t argue. Arguing in the forge was the first thing outlawed under Feanor’s tutelage, and Atar’s rules had a way of sticking. Besides… Curufin wouldn’t know how to argue the point. Gendry was right. He picked up a lot of Curufin’s slack, and— though he was loathe to accept any help— Curufin wasn’t in a position to say no. 

The shame only left him a little bit as the drink settled in his stomach.

They sat in silence for a time, waiting for the crawling warmth to overtake their limbs. Curufin didn’t doubt he felt the effects far more strongly than large Gendry, but he also needed the numbing sensation more. That balanced everything out; made it tolerable, even… pleasant. As the feeling peaked and waned while they sat comfortably, Curufin never felt that crawling discomfort that usually came with spending excessive time with people. Gendry was… easy; good to work with. 

Gendry had more raw ability, but Curufin possessed a finer eye for detail, and it put them in the same position to learn from and help one another. Curufin quite liked going over Gendry’s metal compositions and making small tweaks, and introducing the other boy to techniques Mott would never be able to teach them. Mott made his swords and shields and helms, and he made them beautiful. But delicate jewelry or fine decoration escaped his made-for-battle priorities. Because of this, Curufin’s Elven skills were often useful, because Gendry enjoyed a great deal of detail work. He had incredible artistic vision beneath his slow words and bare sensibilities. 

Gendry’s careful recreation of animals was part of the inspiration for the bracelet that was Curufin’s most recent work. At the bottom of his small bag, his hard labour now sat, beautiful and intricate and largely pointless, as he’d never wear it amidst the King’s Landing court. But it was his, and the tangible representation of his mind’s work. He was very proud.

That bracelet was the nicest thing Curufin Baratheon had ever made. 

Gendry didn’t even have to pound out the silver for him.

The moon came out from behind a cloud and in through the window, reminding Curufin of just how late it was. He wordlessly hopped down from the table they sat on, and Gendry followed. Curufin picked up his bag, and raised his hand in farewell. The gesture was returned as Gendry went towards the stairs to his quarters. Gendry smiled at him.

Curufin tried to return the gesture.

He’d been very good at that up until a year ago. He couldn’t help but wonder what about his regained Elven sensibilities had stiffened his facial muscles. 

Out the back door of Tobho Mott’s smithy, Caranthir leaned against the wall. The bags under his eyes were deep, and he looked more than a little peeved. But all he said as they started walking back to the Red Keep was, “Finally.”

Caranthir had been very indulgent to Curufin recently— not even grumbling while he did it— which was something Curufin wasn’t sure he deserved. He couldn’t tell if the lenience came from some form of guilt, or an attempt at appeasement, or growing trust. But Curufin also knew better than to question good fortune, or the small allowances an elder brother might give. Both luck and siblings were fickle creatures.

It wasn’t until they’d slipped through their favourite servant’s entrance that Caranthir spoke again.

“You did read Tyrion’s Dorne book, right?”

Curufin sighed, and he tried to keep from sounding as annoyed with the inevitable conversation as he felt. “Yes,” he bit out, trying to soften the growl of his tired voice. “And three others.”

“This is a bad idea, I swear it on the Crone,” Caranthir said immediately, as if he hadn’t really cared about Curufin’s reply. He’d just wanted to open up the conversation to complaints again. Curufin could just see Caranthir gathering steam for his indignant rant, and his limbs felt heavy in response. 

“I know,” Curufin muttered, his voice edging on a whine. But pitiful acceptance was the best path, because the only other option would be to argue, and he was tired of fighting with Caranthir.

“I don’t like this. You’re not a diplomat on your best days, and you’re… just _too young_ to be asked to deal with the Prince of Dorne. They won’t respect you.”

 _You can just go ahead and say I’ll come up to their chests. No one respects someone half their age and short._ Curufin never had.

“I _know_.” His voice was slightly louder this time, tone getting gravely with aggravation despite his best efforts. This time it was definitely a whine.

“Then agree with me,” Caranthir snapped, face flushed and lips pressed tightly together. His eyes were narrowed, but not in the anger Caranthir was probably trying to project. He just looked upset. _Poor Caranthir_ , Curufin thought, with more kindness than he ever would have in Arda, _his face is so very expressive_. 

Everything was on display. The worry, the fury, and all those other miscellaneous emotions that bubbled like a kettle ready to blow; everything was there for anyone to dissect. Curufin could see the anxiety under all the false bluster.

He was trying to take his brother’s advice and be _nicer_ — attempting to ease the burden on Caranthir’s shoulder— so Curufin tried to be sympathetic to Caranthir’s rising turmoil over the situation… But it was really difficult.

Curufin just let out a more ragged and exasperated sigh than before— something that was almost a huff— and didn’t say anything. They walked on in silence.

They’d been… _not fighting_. Neither Caranthir nor Curufin had any desire to approach anything even close to what could be classified as ‘fighting’. Light bickering was perhaps the closest, and even that was edgeless. The worry that it would escalate lingered.

Instead, they’d been quietly, bitterly making their stances known without actually just plainly hashing the situation out. And what a situation it was.

Crown Prince Curufin Baratheon was being sent to Dorne to take up the offer of Prince Doran Martell. Just Curufin, as the king had been away from King’s Landing long enough and no one was fool enough to even consider sending Cersei Lannister to be hosted by the Dornish; neither they nor she would stand for it. 

But when the prince went to Dorne alone, the hope was— in Martell’s words— that, “by allowing His Grace, Prince Curufin, to see and explore a region of his kingdom that he has never before experienced, we might be able to foster a lasting feeling of kinship.”

King’s Landing agreed. At least, if there had been dissent in the ranks it was squashed before Curufin was made aware of this scheme. The king had grumbled about the Martells some, but Lord Stark encouraged the idea immensely; so the king agreed. As did the rest of the council.

When he thought about it for more than ten seconds while trying to sleep, Curufin could admit that he was _ever so slightly_ peeved that once again his actions were being decided without his consent or imput. But a diplomatic trip wasn’t as unpalletable as a betrothal; in fact, Curufin was curious to see if going to Dorne could be fruitful. Maglor was in Dorne. 

Besides, even Sansa Stark and the betrothal situation had proved to be… not quite the insurmountable disaster he’d initially anticipated.

The only problem with the whole Dornish scheme was that the queen and Caranthir were in agreement. 

All of King’s Landing shuddered at the prospect. 

A largely unsupervised trip to Dorne, the queen and prince’s guard maintained, would be an unparalleled disaster, and this was the worst idea anyone in the Seven Kingdoms had ever had. Both had taken their complaints to the council and king. And Curufin. Especially Curufin. After he agreed to take the trip, his brother’s and mother’s burning, furious eyes had turned to glare at him at once, and he knew this was a stance he would pay for. 

Curufin felt no shame in admitting he was a little intimidated in that moment. Nor did he feel shame for how utterly exhausted he was of their never-ending complaining and foul moods.

But he wouldn’t recant.

The matter had been settled, and no tantrums from Caranthir and Cersei could change that. But they still tried. Caranthir aired his grievances every second he could, and then he nagged at Curufin to make sure he was prepared for the very trip he was trying to stop. He was so vocally against the enterprise, Curufin was half afraid Caranthir would greet the Martells by saying, “I think this whole thing is idiotic and I don’t trust you!”

For several days, Curufin had been ready to bash Caranthir over the head for his irrationality. This kind of pointless protection was Cersei’s typical attitude, and something Caranthir had despised throughout their childhood. Why agree with her smothering stance now? It took two days of almost-fights, but Caranthir eventually answered without prompting when he broke into Curufin’s bedchamber deep into the night. 

Caranthir was worried that Stark was purposefully trying to get them out of King’s Landing for when the confrontation happened.

“What confrontation?”

“You remember what I had Myrcella tell you about Arryn? There’s so much more.”

The accusations Caranthir levelled against Tywin Lannister’s children made Curufin’s stomach curl and his chest tighten. He had felt his heart banging against his ribcage and how his jaw worked and clenched. Curufin breathed deeply in order to hold his tongue, because all he could think was _child-killers, faithless, cowards_.

Was this why Caranthir had been so unbearably uncomfortable? Frantic, with shadows under his eyes that looked like paint, and ink stains on his hands. Was he worried about these people?

Surely not! This was too much to defend.

Curufin and his family had done things he wasn’t necessarily proud of, but they’d never sunk to the level of shoving children from windows, and they’d never hid their actions like petty criminals. Curufin had marched to Doriath not expecting or wanting defense from Tyelperinquar or anyone else. He and his brothers chose their path, and they followed it to the natural conclusion.

They didn’t commit their crime and still try to reap the benefits of purity.

But Caranthir _was_ worried for them, Curufin had realized as he watched his brother pace back and forth trying to parse out possible ways to preserve Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion. Caranthir was worried about what Maedhros and Stark were going to do to the Lannister siblings, and when Curufin understood that he felt a rush of hatred. 

“Let them,” he’d hissed suddenly, interrupting Caranthir’s rambling.

“What?”

“Let them face their fate. Hell, let’s leave King’s Landing and let them die.”

Caranthir’s face had passed through a gauntlet of emotions, each one more vividly displayed than the last. Shock and fear and sadness and anger and _desperation_. That was the face of someone who was clinging to a rapidly crumbling wall. He looked like he was about to cry. Curufin stopped trying to argue about it. 

There really was nothing to be done about Caranthir’s desire to upset himself. Naught to do but to leave his brother be and let the reality that everything would work out in their favour prove itself.

Maedhros was involved, after all. How could it not?

But with mere days before their intended trip to Dorne and Maedhros having gone oddly silent about his investigation, Caranthir was a mess. He looked abjectly miserable wandering the halls of the Red Keep late into the night, and not at all fit to ride in the morning. Which could be… bad.

Curufin licked his lips, and considered asking Caranthir to recuse himself from the jousts tomorrow; someone of Caranthir’s rather mediocre horsemanship could be in real danger. The Hand’s Tourney— as the king had dubbed it— would host some of the finest knights of the realm. 

Surely, there was no shame in a new knight, barely a man grown, not wishing to face off against the likes of Loras Tyrell and the Mountain. Caranthir always made a good show in the archery contest! Why risk the joust, why risk the melee, when he looked unable to sit straight on a horse?

But Curufin didn’t manage to voice his concerns. When he had gone to open his mouth, his throat tightened up. 

Because there would be shame if the crown prince’s personal guard didn’t attempt the dangerous events, and Caranthir already had a poor reputation. There would be real repercussions, both to his standing in society, and maybe to Caranthir’s position. The king’s favour could be so fickle. Caranthir had gained his status by throwing himself head first into a dangerous tourney competition, he couldn’t bow out now.

But was a potentially fatal showing still better than no showing?

Curufin didn’t know.

A distinctly uncomfortable feeling crept upon Curufin, fueled by exasperation and… shame. He was the reason, after all, that Caranthir wasn’t getting any sleep tonight, and probably wouldn’t perform well tomorrow. The unsettling feeling crawled up Curufin’s skin, and he shifted as they walked. He felt the distinct urge to do something to compensate Caranthir.

Curufin didn’t know what to do, though.

It felt ungrateful to apologize to Moryo for asking him to escort Curufin to Mott’s forge. He didn’t regret going or asking for the service, after all.

Then again, was this the kind of situation that should involve apologies? The one Caranthir had been talking about when they had that awful fight a few weeks ago? Doubt hit Curufin.

As their steps seemed to echo louder and he became increasingly aware of his brother, Curufin sucked in a breath through his teeth. Expressing his concerns and conflicted feelings might… what? Upset Caranthir more? But Moryo seemed to like hearing those things, a desire that still boggled Curufin.

Damn. What would Tyelperinquar do?

Curufin had been asking himself that quite a bit lately. He wasn’t sure if it was working to make him less… hitable. But taking second looks at his actions had been making Caranthir happier and more indulgent, so Curufin reasoned there seemed to be some positive outcome.

The process was draining, as his only frame of reference for a… nicer version of himself was his son, and Curufin didn’t like thinking about Tyelperinquar. Doing so was distinctly uncomfortable, and scratched irritably at his chest.

To ease the feeling, Curufin attempted to consider Tyelperinquar’s possible actions academically, and focus on what Tyelperinquar would do if he felt he’d inconvenienced someone. The only thought that came to mind— the only memories that ever seemed to come to mind— was one of their many fights.

Curufin had found Tyelperinquar— long since grown, past a hundred years, but certainly not an _adult_ who should be allowed to fight— preparing to take one of the raiding positions, and he’d flown into a rage. There’d been yelling, and Tyelperinquar had abandoned reason first, oscillating between blinding fury to hysterically apologizing for being “a burden.” Curufin had snapped at him for thinking such stupid things, calling his son a dolt if he thought that just because Curufin didn’t allow him to fight that he didn’t have a place at his father’s side. It hadn’t eased Tyelperinquar’s worries, nor cooled Curufin’s ire.

No, that didn’t seem like a good way to look at Curufin’s current situation. He hadn’t wanted Tyelperinquar to apologize for what Curufin gave to him. It made Curufin’s effort feel wasted. No… apologizing to Caranthir for keeping him up wouldn’t be a good option then.

What had Curufin wanted to hear?

What had Curufin not said when Tyelperinquar silently pulled him away from Aikanaris’s funeral pyre?

Ah. That was it.

“Moryo,” Curufin said, his soft voice echoing loudly off the silent stone halls and drawing Caranthir’s befuddled attention. “Thank you.”

Caranthir’s eyebrows furrowed, and a furiously blush spread across his face. “What?” he sputtered, scowling. He looked angry. Curufin snorted at the expression, and turned away as Caranthir’s bluster just grew louder. He smiled, very pleased with himself. Yes, that did seem to have been the right thing to say.

“What do you mean ‘ _thank you_ ’?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“ _No._ What do you mean-”

“ _Your Grace_.”

The quiet, breathy call that interrupted their back-and-forth had come from the balcony above their heads. Standing on the staircase landing and leaning over the railing was Sansa Stark, with her hair down and looking frightened half to death. When she caught Curufin’s eyes, a relief spread across her face, the kind he’d only seen on the faces of those who thought they were going to die and then didn’t. 

Curufin tried not to gape.

A snicker to his left drew his attention away. Caranthir’s face was still blindingly red, but his attitude had switched to vindictive amusement quickly enough. His grin was positively vulpine.

“What?” Curufin snapped, already moving to walk up towards where Sansa Stark rigidly stayed in fear and shame. Caranthir skipped after him, his much longer legs making up the space in half the time easily.

“Nothing,” he whispered as they drew closer, still smirking. “Don’t mind me. Just go save your fair maiden.”

Curufin, two steps above Caranthir, turned on his heel, and even made a move forward to swat at his brother. But Caranthir grabbed his wrists easily, and manhandled him back around to start marching up the stairs again. Curufin was about to try to bite Moryo, when he caught sight of Sansa Stark’s blindingly red hair again. He suddenly remembered his decorum, and at least tried to fix the scowl on his face.

Caranthir and the queen had both been scolding him for the scowl. Tyelperinquar hadn’t liked it either.

As they neared the top of the stairs, a small shadow darted out from behind Sansa Stark. Curufin felt dread curl in his breast, and Caranthir whispered an impassioned, depairing, “Oh no.”

Arya Stark was here as well, and she was glaring at them.

“ _See?_ ” she said, also in her nightgown but standing with all the pomp and power of a knight in full armour. “I told you, I _told_ you. The prince is always sneaking out, and we are not lost. I told you we were near the royal quarters.”

Arya Stark stuck her tongue out at her sister, and Curufin saw actual anger flash across Sansa’s face for the first time. She scowled, an expression that wasn’t nearly as stormy and fierce as Arya’s. Sansa Stark’s anger was more like ice. 

“You’re wrong,” she hissed, voice cold, proud, and sure of itself. “We are lost, and we’d have been wandering the castle all night if the prince hadn’t come to help us. This hall is leagues away from the tower.”

Caranthir cleared his throat loudly to draw everyone’s attention. 

“You’re both right.”

“ _What?_ ” the Stark girls both snapped at the same time, and Caranthir pulled back from their ire a little bit. He raised an eyebrow. 

“You’re both right,” Caranthir drawled again, with just a bit of bite. “Maegor’s Holdfast is just down these stairs and one right turn away, but it’d be near impossible to get back to the Tower of the Hand in a timely manner without passing through the kitchens from here. In fact, I’m surprised the pair of you managed to get so turned around to begin with. Unless…” Caranthir leaned down dramatically at the waist to put himself on eye level with Arya Stark. “You took some illicit passages, that you aren’t supposed to know about. They are hardly ladylike.”

Arya bared her teeth at him, and for a moment Curufin honestly thought she was going to spit in Caranthir’s eye. But before she could do more than sneer, Caranthir placed a hand atop her head and gave a wink. Arya Stark reeled back from the gesture, both wary and intrigued, it seemed. She stared at Caranthir with new consideration.

Without meaning to, Curufin shared a look with Sansa; who, for her part, was redder than Caranthir and looked about ready to die of shame. But she echoed his grimace of confusion and exasperation at their siblings, and Curufin almost smiled. Then they both realized who they were standing next to, and Curufin turned away from from Sansa’s gaze as quickly as possible.

He could feel the slight burn in his own cheeks, and couldn’t keep the scowl off his face after that.

“What are you even doing out here, so late at night?” Curufin snapped, pointedly directing the question at Arya Stark. He did make sure to watch Sansa Stark out of the corner of his eye, though, and he noticed how she didn’t flinch. She’d stop reacting to his harsh words and booming voice recently, and Curufin still didn’t know how he felt about that. 

In fact, rather than look chastised, Sansa simply gave Curufin and Caranthir a watery smile before beginning her tale. She’d gotten better at speaking to Curufin, too. 

“I’m so terribly sorry, Your Grace. We didn’t mean any harm, it’s just that Arya said… Arya, Arya said that you would be returning to the castle at this hour. And, well, I thought that was a little odd, but now I see that you do have business right now and I’m terribly sorry to interrupt! Please, if you will only direct, or, or… maybe escort us— if you have time!— Back to Tower of the Hand… I would be obliged to you, if you would. But we’ll not bother you further, Your Grace, if it’s… a bother.”

Better did not necessarily mean good at talking to him. 

Curufin felt his face grow increasingly hotter as Sansa Stark pleaded and rambled. She was just… so earnest.

Conscious of his stormy scowl and pink cheeks, Curufin looked to Caranthir. He just raised his eyebrows at the glance, and Curufin bit back a sigh of defeat. Of course they would have to escort Lady Sansa and Lady Arya back to the Tower of the Hand, of course. Curufin didn’t _want_ to, but he couldn’t justify not doing so even if he tried for ten days and ten nights. 

Curufin was forced to hold out his arm for Sansa Stark, with a look on his face that must have been something, because it made Caranthir and Arya Stark giggle. Sansa didn’t seem to mind; she thanked Curufin effusively and gripped his arm with dainty delight.

Her manners were always impeccable, which was both a relief and a trial.

Caranthir didn’t take Lady Arya’s arm because she didn’t seem to even possess manners. He did drag her away by the scruff, marching to the east. Curufin and Sansa followed a few paces behind, and the four of them silently made their way towards the Tower of the Hand.

For some reason, walking through the darkened halls of the Red Keep was so much worse than doing the exact same thing in the daylight. Over the past few weeks, Curufin had been sporadically inviting Sansa Stark to do things ladies liked to do, like walking in gardens and having tea… in gardens. He’d taken her arm at least a dozen times by now, and usually it wasn’t so bad. Sansa didn’t cling, or stand too close; something Curufin appreciated more than she could understand. But fulfilling social expectation for the small crowd that followed Lady Stark and Prince Curufin was one thing. This more… intimate walk was an entirely different encounter, and Curufin’s whole body felt like a tightly coiled spring. 

He just… Curufin didn’t know where he and Sansa Stark stood, or how to define her against him, and that…

Well, Sansa Stark was just so honest in her childish affection. How freely and earnestly her admiration was given to Curufin! And though he tried to remind himself otherwise, it really felt that she was offering herself to _Curufin_ rather than some concept of the Crown Prince.

It frightened him.

It was false, of course, even though Sansa Stark didn’t seem to realize it. 

She was learning to weather Curufin’s lack of propriety, his dismal expressions, his overt honesty, and disdain for courtly pastimes. But that was adapting to the terrible situation they’d been put in, not learning to like someone for their own sake. Sansa was fulfilling the role she had been told her whole life she was supposed to play. She was walking to their betrothal— which was really a noose around both of their necks— with a smile.

But though he hated it, and, oh, Curufin hated this situation, and her— but not her, rather he hated the concept of Sansa, the idea of who she had to be— and he hated himself, and hated admitting to feeling some measure of kinship with her… Curufin could empathize with Sansa Stark’s plight. He could understand what it meant to have your entire life laid out for you the second you were born, and not resent it. Sometimes… expectation and duty were burdens you could wear with pride.

Curufinwë Atarinkë had spent his entire life fulfilling his role as Feanor’s ‘favourite’ son, and he had done so with a smile. 

The thought made Curufin grimace rather dramatically, and at the display Sansa Stark uttered a soft, “Your Grace?”

Curufin quickly smoothed his expression. 

“Forgive me,” he muttered, “just lost in thought.”

Sansa did not reply immediately. Though Curufin tried to not pay attention to how she forcibly stopped herself from biting her lip, he couldn’t miss the blatant concern and curiosity on her face. But she would never speak out of turn. Curufin sighed.

“Ask,” he commanded wearily, and this time she did jump at his curt tone. “Whatever is on your mind, just go ahead and speak it. It does me no good for you to keep quiet like that. Either learn to lie better, or learn to be bolder.”

She made a small noise, like a chastised child. Curufin felt a little bad when he noticed how she dropped her head, and he considered apologizing. Sansa was so fragile with her emotions, he’d been apologizing to her often. It meant Curufin kept her favour— and her father’s, and Caranthir’s— but her delicate sensibilities were getting a little exhausting. 

But then Curufin remembered that Tyelperinquar often had delicate sensibilities and ideas of honor that once Curufin hadn’t wanted to shake, and he felt like scum.

Before he could say sorry for being so forward with his critiques, though, Sansa met his eyes head on.

“Your Grace, may I ask why you and Ser Caranthir are wandering the halls so late? And why you are dressed as you are?”

Ah. Yes, Curufin should have seen that coming.

Little Arya Stark had noticed their nighttime excursions. Who else? Varys had always known, as had Lord Arryn. Thus the twins knew, and so did Myrcella. A few guards knew about Curufin’s illicit ‘hobby’. But that meant the whole of the Red Keep probably did. 

Were the king and queen really that oblivious?

Did they care so little?

Curufin bit his own cheek, and blew out a harsh breath. Well. It wasn’t like it mattered if Sansa Stark knew why he was sneaking out. The truth was likely much nicer than any of the theories she could postulate. 

“I dress like one of the smallfolk in order to walk about the city unmolested,” Curufin said, he held high and eyes firmly gazing into the distance. “Then, on nights when I have no other duties, I offer my services at a workshop on the Street of Steel. I’ve taken up blacksmithing. It is a passion of mine.”

“Oh,” Sansa breathed out, and she sounded positively enchanted. Curufin looked over at her, surprised to see her grinning and her eyes shining.

He hadn’t really expected that reaction. Blacksmithing, after all, wasn’t an acceptable activity for a prince. It was dangerous, and taxing; inglorious too. Smith work was far too common a practice. Why, it was an _occupation_ , something a noble should never have. A positive response from one of the nobility wasn’t something Curufin was used to.

But Sansa Stark’s face was curious and open; kind. “Do you make swords and armour, Your Grace?”

Curufin floundered for a moment, and he had to shut his mouth before it gaped. Sansa had leaned in closer.

“Yes,” he said, though his voice was quieter than Curufin had ever heard himself. “Yes,” he tried again, stronger this time, “I’ve assisted in the making of swords and amour, and taken on a few independent weaponry projects. But also horseshoes, hinges, cutlery, and the like. Common household items are most of what gets commissioned. But my personal endeavors, mostly… mostly I make jewelry.”

 _Why is my heart beating so hard?_ Why was Curufin feeling vaguely sick? He loved his work, and he’d often despaired on not being able to properly speak about it. But it had been so long since he could have pride in smithing, for a variety of reasons. He was out of practice, both in skill and in talking about his skills. 

Curufin was nervous about what Sansa Stark would think, and he _didn’t know why_.

He just held his breath to try and stem the awkward weight in his chest, and didn’t speak so that he would stop stuttering. Curufinwë _did not_ stutter.

Sansa Stark virtually squealed at his clarification, and cried, “Jewelry? Oh, _Your Grace_ , that’s so lovely. May I… That is, if it is not an imposition, may I see some of your work?”

Curufin grimaced again, and she backtracked instantly.

“But of course not, if you do not wish it. I don’t want to pry, I’m terribly sorry, I…” she trailed off briefly, before charging forward, seeming to have come to some sort of conclusion in a half second. “I’m very proud of my embroidery, Your Grace, and I like to make most of my gowns myself. I understand how uncomfortable it can be, though, to show something you’re proud of to someone else.”

Sansa smiled at Curufin kindly, full of gentle understanding and compassion. He let out a protracted breath, and couldn’t bear to meet her eyes, suddenly overcome with embarrassment and turmoil as they walked on in silence.

Their party of four marched up the steps of the Tower of the Hand, where another little girl— the one who had harassed Curufin at the Winterfell welcome feast— waited anxiously for them. She hissed, “ _Sansa,_ ” at their arrival, and Arya Stark ran off instantly. Sansa Stark turned demurely towards Curufin, and said farewell.

“Good night, milady,” Curufin muttered awkwardly, still sure he was blushing and making a fool of himself. “I’ll… I’ll see you at the Tourney, I imagine.”

Then, he and Caranthir took their leave.

Instead of escorting Curufin all the way to his quarters, Caranthir left him at the crossroads between their rooms; another small allowance Caranthir had been giving, letting Curufin walk around alone some. ‘The Prince’s Shadow’ had given Curufin a little bit of breathing room, and even last week Caranthir had asked Curufin to go research obscure dueling laws from the Westerlands alone. Something about trying to find some reason for a feud between Lord Arryn and Jaime. It proved fruitless work… but Caranthir was actively trusting Curufin.

But not so much that before they parted ways, Caranthir didn’t lay a hand on Curufin’s forehead. “Are you well?” he demanded, in that way of his that made Caranthir sound like he was accusing Curufin of something rather than expressing concern.

Curufin batted his hand, grumbled that he was fine, and stomped into Maegor’s Holdfast. Caranthir still called at his back, “If you feel like you have a fever in the morning, have Janna fetch me!”

Curufin knew he could probably expect Caranthir to be in his room before he even awoke, with a cold cloth and a maester on hand.

Ridiculous.

He wasn’t _sick_ , illness was the least of all Curufin’s many problems. He was just… contemplative. Unnerved.

Curufin all but fell into his room, and after readying for bed, he collapsed onto his matress. With a groan he settled down. His heart was still beating erratically, and his chest hurt. The frantic pounding made sleep elude him.

Why had he gotten so bashful when talking to Sansa Stark about his smithing? Why the hell hadn’t he shown her the bracelet _sitting right there in his bag?_ He’d been so proud just hours ago. 

Curufin was used to being proud; he wore success as easily as others did self-doubt. People had been complimenting Curufin’s work since he was barely more than a toddler— the first time, that was. His family, his subjects, and his peers had all expected great things from Curufin since his birth, ever since his parents prophesied who he would be: Curufinwë, the heir to Feanor’s work; Atarinkë, his father’s truest son. He’d never had reason to be ashamed or frightened of presenting his forgework then, because everyone already knew it would be good enough. 

Until suddenly it wasn’t. 

“A cheap imitation,” people whispered about Curufin’s gems. “A dulled copy,” they called his metals. “He makes everything as well as his father does, but without that... spark,” he’d heard more times than it was reasonable to count. But he had counted. Curufin had counted two hundred and forty-eight times someone had made sure Atarinkë knew he wasn’t as good as the original Curufinwë. 

The comments had taken their toll.

But Curufin never let that discourage him! Whatever everyone else in the world said, Atar had been _proud_ of Curufin’s work. Aikananaris had _delighted_ in helping him along and loved to show off what he gifted her. Tyelperinquar had admired Curufin, and he’d wished to emulate his father.

It had been enough.

And then Atar was _gone_ , Aikanaris was _dead_ , and Tyelperinquar was… grown. Then Celebrimbor had nothing more to learn, and he was so enthusiastic about his work, and he poured his very soul into it so cavalierly, and he was so inventive. Before Curufin had even known what happened… his son was a better smith than him.

The realization that Tyelperinquar might have surpassed him was galling. And Curufin didn’t react with much grace.

They’d fought. Curufin vividly remembered how Nargothrond’s forge became a nightmare of ego and critique, and even at the time he had known it was his fault. He’d taken to dismissing his son’s original creations and disparaging his innovations, and Curufin grew secretive about his own work. That had frightened Tyelperinquar spectacularly, as he had likely thought at the time that Curufin was becoming as… reserved as Atar was in his last days. But Curufin had never been frightened someone would try to steal his creations. He wasn’t good enough for that. No… rather, Curufin had been self-conscious about what his superior son would think of his father’s lackluster creations.

The insidious fear that had haunted him since adolescence, the one he’d so stringently ignored for a thousand years and more, had crept up on Curufin all at once, and it consumed him.

Was Curufinwë Atarinkë the weak link in his father’s legacy?

A copy. A lesser recreation. Suddenly, he was asking himself daily, who is Curufin?

Who was Tyelperinquar? Curufin had also named his son Curufinwë. But Tyelperinquar had never favoured that name the way Curufin did. Maybe that was because Aikanaris had the good sense to give their baby some additional sense of individuality. Curufinwë Tyelperinquar was skilled, and he was silver, and he was _their_ son.

Celebrimbor was his own person; Celebrimbor was a shining original in a way that Curufin had never been sure of himself, or his own identity. 

The realization had been more devastating to him than his death managed to be, and it made Curufin furious.

He had grown so angry, and he hadn’t known who to be angry at. Not Atar, never his father. Amil? But he couldn’t express that anger when she was all the way across the sea. Was Curufin angry at himself? 

Whoever it was, Curufin had taken it out on the person least deserving of his ire.

Was he actually even angry? 

Lying a literal world away, with a different name, Curufin now thought… with a little distance he thought that maybe… he’d just been translating a far more complicated series of emotions into the more simplistic anger. 

Perhaps he’d really been jealous. And scared; frightened for himself, but also for Curufinwë Tyelperinquar.

Who was his son supposed to be if not Feanor?

Curufinwë Atarinkë certainly didn’t know. Curufin had no experience with that, with maturing into a fully-formed individual with his own creations and goals. Doubts came with the uncertainty. From doubt sprung the desperation to cling onto what he had known. The final form was anger.

Hiding underneath all it was the shame. And Curufin was still ashamed; ashamed of his forgework, his creations, and his own shortcomings therein. He was ashamed of how he’d treated Caranthir and Sansa Stark, and that Myrcella was so upset with him, and how neither the king nor the queen seemed to like all of him. Curufin was ashamed that Tyelperinquar felt compelled to leave him, when Curufin’s own loyalty to Feanor had never faltered. A dulled copy, indeed. 

There was no Feanor in this world. Not anymore, but maybe never at all. Like Curufin Baratheon had been a distortion, Feanor Blackfyre must have been the same. Because if he hadn’t been… why had their father not come for his sons?

A sob wracked Curufin’s chest, and he bit his lip so hard and long that he tasted the salt of blood amongst the salt of tears.

 _Now I’m crying,_ he thought detachedly, _Great. You are childish._

He scrambled out his bed anyway, any self-censure lost amongst the swirl of self-hatred. One person still liked him, through it all, for no good reason; his brother still trusted Curufin.

Caranthir never locked his door, but his brother did pull a knife on Curufin when he scrambled into his room. But one look a Curufin’s wet and blotchy face made Caranthir drop the dagger and drag Curufin onto his bed. 

Curufin cried softly into Moryo’s shoulder, and didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say; nothing productive or helpful, anyway. 

It would all be fine come morning, he kept telling himself. Curufin had not yet had any doubts that the sun’s rays couldn’t at least partly banish. He could move in the daytime, he could act, and be productive. In the morning, Curufin could work on maybe changing what was making him so miserable. 

But the dark of the night was for vulnerability and for tears, where Varda’s light could protect you. 

Moryo laid him down for bed, and fetched Curufin water, and wiped at his face. They’d done this a hundred times before. It was so easy to enjoy that gentle comfort again, so much so that Curufin started crying even harder, wondering, _Why did I not want this?_

Curufinwë Atarinkë was a fool, one with too much pride. But that pride was all he’d ever had to hold onto, and Curufin felt utterly stripped of it now.

Another sob wracked his chest, and Curufin held onto Moryo all the tighter, choking out, “Thank you, thank you, I’m sorry.”

Moryo just said, “Don’t be sorry. It’s going to be all right, I promise.” 

Curufin hiccupped and didn’t believe him, but he fell asleep to those soft reassurances anyway. Caranthir’s arm was still around him in the morning.

Dawn fell through Caranthir’s window like an assault, and the sun was red. _It’s going to be hot_ , Curufin thought at the sight, because Father had once told him while they were fishing at Storm’s End that red suns always forewarned hot days. Curufin sat quietly, wallowing in that light and feeling silly. There was a crust caked over his eyes, and his face was still swollen. He would have been ashamed of his display, but Curufin was tired of being ashamed. 

He was ashamed of his forgework; and how he measured up to his name, and how he occasionally acted so foully his own brother couldn’t stand him, and of what a son a hundred times his age thought of him. But Curufin couldn’t fix those things in a day, even when he was trying. He’d not managed it in a whole lifetime.

The forgework, though… The forge had always been his lifeline, and the moment Curufinwë let go of it in Nargothrond was the moment he lost himself. Maybe he could reclaim that pride and love. Perhaps… being a Man might not be a total damnation in that regard.

No Man could make the Silmarils. No Man could enchant bracelets or rings. 

Curufin had made thousands upon thousands of swords that simply cut deep, and hundreds of necklaces that did nothing more but look pretty. And once, Curufin had quite liked them all. Gendry had quite liked the bracelet Curufin finished just last night.

Surely, Sansa Stark would too.

Daylight had come. Curufin had no more time for fear, doubt, or shame. 

He could once again flagellate himself, and ask, ‘ _Who am I?_ ’ until he was crippled or hollow. Or, he could listen to the itching and buzzing in his veins, and stop being so damn pathetic. There were things to do.

He shook Caranthir awake, feeling just a little wild and hysterical. While his brother was still groggy and miserable, Curufin whispered, “Don’t joust today.” 

Nonetheless, Caranthir somehow had the wherewithal to respond, “No,” before turning over and throwing a pillow over his head. Curufin clenched his jaw, and he swiped at this eyes and ran his fingers through his hair to reclaim some semblance of presentability. Then, he climbed over his brother’s back to lay across him. Caranthir made a sound like he was dying.

“You’ll be hurt or killed. Don’t joust, horses can sense weakness.”

“Oh, hush, I know that.” Caranthir batted Curufin’s hands and tried to push him off, to no avail. “I’m signed up, I have to joust. ‘Sides, Celegorm taught me a few things while we were up North. I want to try it out, maybe even unhorse Jaime for all the shit he’s putting me through.”

Curufin pushed his palm into Caranthir’s face, making him squawk.

“You’ll never best Jaime,” Curufin said, even as his mind tried to figure out all the ways Caranthir could actually unseat the Kingslayer. _Moryo has years of experience_ , but Caranthir had always known those things about riding into battle and chasing down enemies, unlike Curufin. Celegorm was a champion jouster, but a few pointers and few months was not enough breach the gap between Caranthir and Jaime. And the real problem was that Caranthir was ill at ease, and troubled, and sleep-deprived because of Curufin, which could easily translate to disaster—

_Thawp._

Curufin fell back against the mattress hard, and he was stinging from where the scratchy pillow had hit him right across the face. He made a high-pitched noise of dismay, and sat up to glare at Caranthir. 

His brother just laughed a little from where he was now sitting up, an indulgent smile on his face. “Stop overthinking it,” Caranthir said, “I’ll be fine. Just trust me.” 

Curufin studied Caranthir’s face for several moments. “Why are you doing this?” he asked at length, because it just wasn’t like Caranthir to take risks for the sake of pride. Curufin certainly would, but not Caranthir.

“I’m going to make Maedhros talk to me,” Caranthir replied darkly, and Curufin scowled. He didn’t know exactly why Caranthir and Maedhros were fighting— or if they even actually were— mostly because Caranthir was far more articulate on paper than he’d ever managed to be aloud. His complaints were vague, quiet, and jumbled; not to mention uncouth. But something was upsetting Caranthir about their eldest brother, making him awkward and angry. Maedhros was avoiding them, that Curufin had noticed. But he’d reasoned that Maedhros must have good reasons; Maedhros always had his reasons. And whatever those reasons were— no matter how often Curufin had disagreed with his eldest brother’s reasoning in the past— he’d never thought it was his place to question Maedhros. None of their brothers had.

But maybe… maybe it was? Caranthir certainly was, and if Curufin was encouraging Sansa Stark to break with her sense of station to speak her mind, it naturally followed that… 

Before Curufin could contemplate that further, though, Caranthir’s face shifted some, eyes dropping and smile getting a little sadder. He drew Curufin’s attention as he stood and said, “Just worry about yourself for now, all right? Focus on seeing if you can hear any gossip that might be useful for Maedhros. Do something to make yourself feel better. Worry about Dorne.” 

They would be leaving the day after the tourney. There wasn’t much time, not nearly enough to be arguing with Caranthir, or worrying about arguing with Maedhros. 

“Do you need help dressing?” Curufin asked, because Caranthir didn’t have a squire. He’d only been knighted a year ago, and there hadn’t been much time for tourneys and the like during everything that had happened. The two times Caranthir had competed— the one when he was knighted and an additional tourney a few months ago— Curufin had performed a squire’s duties for him.

Now, though, Caranthir just shook his head. 

“I’ll make Tyrek help. You get dressed, and look princely for all the smallfolk. Mind your manners and make Cersei happy, she’s so angry about Dorne she might lock you in a tower for the smallest infraction and cancel the trip herself.”

Curufin snorted, but he hated how true that statement was. He had no desire to sit in the royal pavilion and weather the queen’s foul mood. Luckily, there was an easy out. 

“Very well,” Curufin said, standing and making for the door, “You find Maedhros, make him be cooperative. I’m… I need to have a conversation with Sansa Stark.”

Curufin would swear he heard Caranthir laughing at him all the way back to his chambers, but steadfastly ignored any lurking embarrassment. He couldn’t afford to be distracted long enough to think too much about his plan. Curufin couldn’t lose his nerve.

He dressed swiftly, and in predominantly black and blue, purposefully favouring the darker colors over his mother and Joffrey’s much loved gold. Still, the sigil of House Baratheon was stitched in yellow onto the front of his doublet. As he buttoned his cuffs, Curufin looked into the mirror at the stag, and couldn’t quite identify what feeling it was in his throat. 

Even as a child, Curufin Baratheon would have rather thrown himself into the sea and swam to Essos than confide his blacksmithing to his father. 

Even as an ignorant child, Curufin had returned to Feanor’s work and shunned Baratheon. And yet Feanor was gone, Baratheon was here, and Curufin couldn’t possibly say why he went back to the forge. The easy answer was that he simply was Curufinwë. 

But there had really only been one Curufinwë.

Baratheon… no, Curufin was not one of them. But at least Curufin Baratheon had been his own person. It would be almost too easy to fall back into that role again, and Curufin had to draw in a deep breath to steady himself. 

As he walked away from the mirror, though, Curufin couldn’t help but think, _the stag isn’t such a bad symbol._

It would do for now.

How ever long that was.

Sansa Stark was just about to enter a litter with the other little girl when Curufin arrived in the courtyard next to the stables. Lord Stark and little Arya were also present, but they were having their horses prepared for the journey to the tourney grounds. There were a dozen other guests of the royal family present, as well as servants and royal knights. 

Curufin had to take a very deep breath before calling, “Lady Sansa!”

He approached her cavalierly, ignored her curtsy, and did not look Lady Sansa in the eye. “Milady,” he gasped for breath, having virtually run to the courtyard to catch her in time and not lose his courage. “You asked… about my personal work yesterday.”

She made a small noise, and stuttered, “Your Grace need not answer, I’m sorry I—”

“Lady Sansa, please don’t apologize,” Curufin declared, still gazing at the gate beyond her shoulder. He could see how crudely the dragon decal had been taken off and the stag had been carved on. “It was I who acted in an unfit manner, and in fact I would… I—” 

Curufin cut himself off, and reached into the small bag he’d strapped to his waist. From inside he pulled out his silver bracelet. It was bulkier than was the fashion in Westeros, more a cuff than anything dainty. But the larger surface area had let Curufin gently carve more detail out of the metal, and the scene he’d crafted was quite beautiful. Despite his uncertainty, there hadn’t been enough time yet for Curufin to hate it. 

Sansa Stark seemed to like the bracelet.

She brought her slim hands up to cover her mouth at first, and empathetically whispered, “It’s beautiful, Your Grace.” She reached to touch, but pulled back at the last second. For a moment, Curufin thought it was her sensibilities holding her back, but then she gave a gentle gasp. 

“It’s a direwolf!” she exclaimed in glee. Curufin gasped as well.

Painstakingly carved out of the silver was a wolf in motion, leaping over a river at night. Initially, Curufin had been inspired by Huan, and he’d tried to replicate how he imagined the former wolfhound’s new form would grow to monstrous proportions. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Huan was now no longer a dog, but a wolf; just as they were Men and not Elves. Curufin also hadn’t remembered that the direwolf was the sigil of House Stark when he thought to gift his bracelet to Sansa.

“Please,” Curufin whispered suddenly, blushing awfully and trying to keep a grasp on his courage, “I’d be honored if you’d wear it today.” 

Then another flaw in his plan— another overlooked, mortifying factor— became apparent to Curufin, and a moment of acute panic struck him. Curufin quickly stepped back in order to flick his eyes up and down Sansa’s form, inspecting every inch of her. She noticed and tensed, which caused Curufin’s face to inflame further.

“I, I just— I don’t want it to clash with your gown, and you’re already wearing copper, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed—” he rambled, until Sansa’s soft giggle cut him off. 

“I think it will be fine, Your Grace,” she said, even though her necklace was copper, and Curufin really hadn’t thought this plan through. Curufin’s only relief at his blunder was that her gown was grey, and the embroidery was green. Those colors looked good with silver. Still, he’d have to plan better in the future. 

As he studied the embellishment on her neckline again to get a notion of her fashion sense, Curufin remembered something. 

“You make your own gowns,” he declared, making Sansa blush and nod demurely.

“Your stitches are very neat,” Curufin continued when she wouldn’t meet his eyes, and leaned in a bit closer to look at the roses. “As is the folding.”

“Do— do you know much about embroidery, Your Grace?” she asked, looking delighted but shocked. Curufin smiled back.

“Not as much as I should. Would your family be amenable if I sat with you today? You could tell me.” Curufin had never much cared for chatter, silliness, idleness, or silly, idle chatter. But he’d only ever had a few points of conversation— linguistics, aesthetics, smithing, Tyelperinquar— and that left quite a few sullen silences in his company. But when he was lucky enough to find someone who enjoyed a craft, Curufin always made sure to ask. 

The look on Sansa Stark’s face was a sweet reward, and if her words were as clever as her needle Curufin would not be in want of conversation. 

“I’m sure Father will allow it.” 

“Then I will ask,” Curufin replied, fingers still fiddling with the bracelet. He abruptly thrust it forward for her to take, not offering to place it on her wrist. That would be just a little too familiar. Sansa grabbed the bracelet with no fuss, and slid it onto her wrist. Curufin had made the bracelet with his own arm as a model, but luckily Sansa was nearly as big as him. Or as small, as it were. 

Curufin studied Sansa Stark for moment longer. _Yes_ , he decided, _she looks nice._ He gave her a decisive nod before walking away. 

Lord Stark’s face was as unreadable as ever, though Lady Arya standing next to him made a series of mocking noises at Curufin’s request to sit with the Hand’s family. Stark only raised one objection, quietly asking, “Would your father not want you next to him?”

Curufin snorted derisively, and didn’t even have to consider his answer. “His Majesty would rather me in your company, Lord Stark, than near my mother and close enough to draw her ire.”

Lord Stark acquiesced. 

Curufin had never had much love for tourneys, even as a boy. He’d always found them tiresome, slogging affairs, with the moments of action few and far between the mundane execution of routine. When he didn’t care about the individual knights charging towards one another, Curufin preferred when they ended the affair quickly; those times when men tilted at each other for several rounds riled up everyone else, but felt tortuous for Curufin. On those occasions when he did care about those knights risking their lives for the sake of petty violence, false sport…

It was hardly less miserable.

During the Hand’s Tourney, though, Curufin spent a largely pleasant morning listening to Sansa Stark talk about embroidery, neither of them paying much attention to the proceedings. Her words were clever; Sansa had a sharp wit when she wasn’t conforming to propriety or trying to be too nice. Curufin was especially impressed that with how she described the differences between Northern and King’s Landing fashions. 

Curufin only removed himself from her conversation when he noticed Caranthir readying his horse to ride. The sight made Curufin squirm, and breathe deeply. He couldn’t see his brother’s face beneath the helm, or gauge how well Caranthir felt or would perform from his body language.

Sansa noticed how his attention drifted away from her, and she commented on the black lion on Caranthir’s shield in order to draw him back.

“Ser Caranthir,” Curufin replied distractedly as he watched Horace Redwyne take his place at the other end, “is the eldest son of my mother’s uncle, Kevan Lannister. He fights for House Lannister, but he also fights for me, as my sworn knight. His sigil reflects that. It’s also a joke.”

He expected Sansa to ask what that joke was, but instead she reached discreetly down and brushed her fingers against his own, which were gripping the bench so hard Curufin could no longer feel them. She was asking permission.

As Caranthir and Ser Redwyne charged, Curufin gave his permission by gripping her hand instead of the bench. Only after the tilt ended with Ser Redwyne on the ground and Caranthir riding away victorious did Curufin realize how hard he’d been squeezing Sansa’s delicate fingers. She did not complain, though, when Curufin reclaimed his white hand. He did not offer apologies or thanks, as the act had been terribly improper and they did not need to attract attention. But Curufin, feeling shaken, did meet Sansa’s eyes, and he thought… that she might have understood what he was trying to communicate.

Sansa held his hand every time Caranthir rode.

Caranthir’s jousting skills had improved, as he managed to win four tilts, even unhorsing Meryn Trant; a sight which filled Curufin with just a little too much glee. It was Maedhros who actually defeated Caranthir, a sight both Curufin and Sansa were unprepared for. Neither knew who to root for. Ultimately, Curufin watched grimly as Caranthir hit the ground and Sansa cheered for her uncle.

_Moryo won’t be pleased,_ Curufin thought in the moment, even as relief made him sag. He’d known Maedhros could be trusted to not endanger Caranthir’s life, and it was better him doing the defeating than someone like Jaime or one of the Cleganes. Still… sibling rivalry probably made the sting of the loss all the more bitter.

This observation proved wrong, as when Caranthir took off his helm to gather up his lance and walk away, he was grinning fiercely. It was only then that Curufin realized that Maedhros would have to talk to Caranthir about settling the loser’s debt, and he had to wonder if Caranthir planned that. Curufin could not have guessed, but he did notice that Caranthir never joined them in the stands.

Maedhros won two more tilts, and now thoroughly invested in the event, Curufin and Sansa cheered for him loudly when he defeated Ser Hugh of the Vale and Jaime. Their good cheer was dashed on Maedhros’s next charge against Gregor Clegane. The Mountain’s lance pierced the neck of Maedhros’s mount, and sent both rider and horse crashing to the ground in a brutal display. There was a vicious crack, and for a moment Curufin was afraid. 

But after several horrifying seconds where Maedhros lay still, the Riverrun lordling bounded to his feet, waving and smiling to show his continued health, and Curufin breathed out a deep sigh of relief. The already wounded horse’s leg had broken on the fall, rather than anything of Maedhros’s.

Only after beginning to breathe again did Curufin realize that he and Sansa had unwittingly grabbed one another’s hands again, and that they had a death grip on each other. Curufin tried to pull away, but Sansa would not let go. She was too focused on the sight of the bleeding, thrashing creature dying in front of them, a look of grim fascination on her face.

Curufin would guess that she’d never seen anything die before; neither animal, nor a man who just so happened to be her uncle. Such sights, no matter how distant or near, tended to leave an impression.

Instead of trying to reclaim his hand, Curufin squeezed her fingers before relaxing. He let her grip him tight, and turned his attention back towards Maedhros’s false cheer, and how his brother’s face went blank when he took out a dagger to end the poor horse’s misery. 

Maedhros walked away covered in blood, and he looked exhausted under his reassuring grins. Curufin felt a stab of guilt mixed with resentment, because Maedhros looked like Caranthir. They were worried and miserable and tired, and Curufin had yet to do anything to help. He’d been given no job besides acting like everything was normal.

But that was another thing he could fix. Curufin would just have to find something to do! A task… before he went to Dorne in two days.

Curufin fought a sigh. Why did every situation feel unwinnable?

_Well,_ Curufin thought with a glance to his left, _every situation but this one._

At length, Sansa let go of Curufin’s hand. Like he had only an hour ago, she shot him a look that was equal parts apology and thanks. Curufin only gave her a nod of acknowledgement, and asked, “Do you have any experience with Myrish lace?” 

They steadfastly ignored the rest of the tourney proceedings. 

At the feast that night, Curufin couldn’t shirk his place at the high table, but as his _betrothed,_ Sansa Stark was easily sat next to him, with Caranthir on the other side. 

Whatever happened with Maedhros, Curufin couldn’t ask Caranthir about it at dinner; but his brother didn’t seem to be up to discussion anyway. Instead of being sociable, Caranthir merely grumbled something about, “Maedhros wants to talk to Vale knights more than his brothers,” then proceeded to quickly down two goblets of wine, and finally laid his head down to sleep on the table. When Curufin pinched him, Caranthir refused to rouse, so he let him be. Curufin would go back to harassing Caranthir for answers after all the dangerous events were over. The melee was still tomorrow. 

Sansa Stark— seeming like she had finally completely overcome any accursed shyness— was a lively conversation partener. Having exhausted talk of embroidery for now, she turned to asking Curufin more about smithing; namely about his rendition of the direwolf on her bracelet. He talked quietly about carving silver— how it was matter of balancing heat and force— until he finally told her about how the great hall wasn’t the place where he was comfortable discussing such things. Then, Sansa smoothly switched subjects as easily as she would pick out a new thread from her basket, and asked him about how he knew how to differentiate a wolf and direwolf.

Curufin just admitted it was Huan, and Sansa began talking about her own wolf, Lady.

She also spoke quietly, well aware of the queen and Joffrey so near them, but her words were impassioned, and brimming with righteous anger.

“Lady’s a good direwolf, and she did nothing wrong. Nymeria’s a bit savage like Arya, but not even she deserved to die. If Prince Joffrey hadn’t been so…” Curufin nodded empathetically, understanding what she was trying to say and what she couldn’t admit aloud. They’d both been by the river at Ruby Ford. They’d both seen Joffrey assault the boy and little Arya. Curufin and Sansa had both seen how the queen got her revenge against Micah the butcher’s son when she couldn’t have the direwolves. 

Watching and hearing her subtle fury made Curufin flush with vindication, and he agreed heartily. Curufin could see how her sharp eyes grew hard with dark and selfish pleasure when he said, “Joff hasn’t stopped whining about the bite since, but I think the direwolf got last laugh.” They were both quite gratified with the other’s anger.

“About your direwolf,” Curufin asked, curiosity getting the better of him, “are the creatures… intelligent? More so than a hound or regular wolf. Have you noticed anything just _more_ about them?”

_Or is it just Huan?_

Curufin was expecting Huan to be the answer, but Sansa’s face twisted up. Her expression wasn’t denial or confusion, though; rather she looked contemplative and just a little wary.

“Well,” she replied, sounding a bit uncertain, “it might sound silly, but… Ever since Ser Celegorm took Lady north, I’ve been rather miserable. And the thing is, I just _know_ that sweet Lady feels the same way. Of course she’s very smart! Lady learned all her commands so well. But sometimes I think she feels things a little more than a hound would. But that’s just ridiculous, I kno—”

“ _No!_ ” thundered through the hall, and Sansa and Curufin swiveled around to see the king lumber to his feet. “You do not tell me what to do, woman! I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, _I will fight!_ ”

Curufin brought his hand up to grip the front of his shirt, and his jaw clenched. He could see Caranthir rousing himself as well, and the same tired exasperation marred his face. Amid the otherwise grave and silent hall, the king continued to rant and rave, yelling at Jaime, yelling at the queen, at the whole world. His face was ruddy and he was sloshing his drink everywhere. 

Curufin and Caranthir met eyes, as a desperate awkwardness settled at the high table. Curufin wished he could still feel awkward about such things. If only such displays were infrequent enough to require embarrassment; or even disappointment. Instead, Curufin simply felt a fear rise in his throat as he turned back towards the aghast Sansa Stark.

“Lady Sansa,” he muttered, as he laid a hand on her arm, “It’s rather late. Would you like an escort back to your quarters?”

She readily agreed. 

Curufin delivered Sansa to her rooms in silence, their earlier pleasant friendliness banished. He quietly bid her good night, and she politely returned the sentiment. As he turned his back, though, Lady Sansa called after him.

“Your Grace! Would you… would you like your bracelet back?”

Curufin turned back towards Sansa, and he gazed at her open face. Though she verbally offered, her hand was still cupping her wrist and the bracelet, and she bled reluctance. Curufin flicked his gaze up and down Sansa’s form again, taking in her red hair, grey and green dress, and Curufin’s silver bracelet. And that damned copper necklace.

Even tired at the end of the day, she looked lovely. The silver cuff was different from the rest of her style, and it drew the eye. But not in an unpleasing way.

Curufin smiled at her. 

“Keep it,” he said. “It’s a gift, and it suits you well. Good night, Lady Sansa.”

The smile she gave him was dazzling. 

“Good night, Your Grace. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Curufin considered this for a moment, before shaking his head mournfully. “No, I must attend to my family tomorrow. But I’ll see you before I leave for Dorne.”

And against all the odds… Curufin would look forward to speaking to her again when he returned. Maybe he could make her something in the Dornish styles and bring it back for her. That would be nice.

The soft smile slipped from his face as he carefully walked down the tower steps, even as he kept his pace steady and unhurried. His whole body was slowly gaining nervous energy with each small descent, and Curufin could feel it spilling from his chest, through his arms and down his fingertips. But he was calm. He would be calm as he flexed his fingers, following the ghostly motions of chipping away at graphite. 

When his foot came off the last step, though, Curufin bolted. 

_That damn fool!_ Curufin thought as he dashed down the hallways, skidding around corners and bounding through doorways, _That damn fool of a king!_ The king was going to fight. He was going to fight and he was going to be drunk, because he always was. And he was going to die.

As Curufin’s feet slapped against the slag, he could already vividly picture the scene like he had a thousand times before: the king’s stomach slashed deep and open by a stray sword, right beneath the large gaps in his ill-fitting armour, and then he’d fall. His massive form would create thunder when he hit the ground, and Father would swipe and fight even as he bled out, not even trying to save himself. He’d laugh as he felled his stunned, motionless opponents from the ground. And then he’d die.

The death would look so marvelous too, almost as incredible as it was inglorious. Pointless! Showboating! What would Father be dying for? For pride, for boredom, for pain, for shame? What point was he trying to prove by never bowing out and walking away? Didn’t he know Curufin was not ready for him to go yet?

Curufin’s running was making his breath ragged, but the tightening of his throat wasn’t wholly from exertion. He couldn’t do this yet. Curufin wasn’t ready to be his own man. He couldn’t be crowned in his father’s ashes, the taste of that death would haunt him for all eternity. Only in this life had it begun to fade.

Curufin couldn’t lose Father again.

Then he slammed into Caranthir’s room for the second time in as many nights, and all that ragged, panicked nervousness fled him. His brother stood across the room, and Caranthir’s grin was wicked. Curufin sighed deeply, heady with relief. All at once he knew that the awful vision wouldn’t come to pass.

It couldn’t.

They’d stopped this very foolishness before. Of course. Of course they’d do so again!

By the Seven, Atarinkë wasn’t very good at forging Elven wonders, and he couldn’t protect his father. But Curufin Baratheon had already saved his father before, and he’d throw himself into Blackwater Bay if he couldn’t again. 

Curufin Baratheon was small enough to sneak through the tunnels into the Maester’s stores.

Late in the night, Curufin and Caranthir scampered off to the lowest levels of the castle, and then they split off from one another halfway to the halls of healing. With Caranthir’s helpful hand down, Curufin lowered himself into the keep’s sewers. Then, while Caranthir drew Maester Rodrick away from any specific shelves, Curufin snuck back up through the Maesters’s drain, the one they used for emptying potions, chamber pots, and various other stuffs. It was disgusting, and Curufin now smelled rank. But he grabbed a small bottle of potent Dreamwine. 

Never once was there a scare or a moment where something went catastrophically wrong. This was the fourth time they’d enacted this heist now. Once was for Gendry, who had needed Milk of the Poppy but Mott had been too cheap to buy anything worthwhile; the second time was in an effort to have Joffrey sleep all through Tommen’s name-day feast. The third heist was enacted for the exact reason it was now, to make the king sleep through a tourney, so he would not compete.

By now, Curufin and Caranthir had it perfected. 

The only moment of annoyance— besides the general uncleanliness— was squeezing back down through the sewer opening in the floor. For the first time in his life, Curufin bemoaned his growing size, as it was getting harder and harder to sneak with each passing year. They’d have to figure something else out soon.

Curufin met Caranthir back in his own royal chambers, Moryo having already prepared him a bath. Curufin exchanged the Dreamwine for a rag, and Caranthir marched off to prepare a bottle of mead accordingly. Curufin sank into the tub, tired and ill-at-ease, but also almost giddy. 

He and Moryo hadn’t enacted a plan so sneaky and rebellious in a long time. Everything had been so utterly serious for nearly two years now, and the Stark matter was making it worse. His family— using either definition— was so miserable, not the least because of Curufin making matters worse with being angry and crying all the time. As Curufin dunked his head under the water, he mused that leaving King’s Landing might truly be good for everyone. 

_I need to order my own mind._

Curufin resurfaced, and clambered out of the bath.

There would be much to do in Dorne, and more to learn. Dornish men tended to be swift and slight; maybe their blacksmiths had adapted to compensate. Their customs were quite different from the rest of the kingdoms, and not everything about culture could be learned in a book. Especially not swordsmanship and smithing.

But what Curufin most anticipated, though, was Maglor. 

Macalaurë had lived longer than any of them. Maybe he would know some of what happened to Tyelperinquar.

Caranthir had long since disappeared when Curufin readied for bed, but they had their standing arrangement to meet in the morning well planned. They would have to proposition Father early in the morning if they wanted the potion to take effect. Then… then they would have to wait for and weather the consequences. They just had to make sure they weren’t caught.

He rose with dawn for the second morning in a row, and hurried himself into appropriate clothes to actually attend breakfast today. Neither the king nor the queen were in attendance, but Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, and their handlers were a present. As Curufin ate swiftly, the children chattered, mostly Joff obliviously speaking like he was giving a sermon, and Myrcella and Tommen whispering amongst themselves. Joffrey made one snide comment about Sansa— who he had despised as heartily as she him since Darry— but quieted when Curufin threateningly raised the knife he was cutting his pork bellies with. The direwolf’s bite had silenced his sharp tongue considerably and made Joffrey even more of a coward. It was so much of an improvement that Curufin almost wanted ask Huan for a favour when he and Celegorm came to King’s Landing.

Before leaving the table, Curufin paused for a moment. But eventually he decided to fight past the lingering confusion, and he ruffled Tommen and Myrcella’s hair on his way out. Myrcella squawked indignantly, but Tommen grinned as if Curufin had just made his whole year. Curufin decided that he would have to see to it that the little boy received more affection. He certainly wasn’t getting it from Mother, Father, or anyone else.

Moryo was waiting in the stables for Curufin, Tyrek— a quiet but shrewd boy who never asked too many questions— trailing behind him. The three of them rode out to the parade grounds, then Tyrek went about preparing Caranthir’s gear for the day while the brothers ran off for the king’s pavilion. Even from a distance, Curufin could hear the king’s booming voice rumbling across the fields. No words could be distinguished, but they weren’t said in a good-humored tone. 

Curufin drew a deep, pained breath. Father was a nightmare when he was in a foul mood, truly a force of nature without reason or compassion. But it would be Curufin’s job to coax him into enough of a calm to drink what Caranthir was offering, and he would have to keep him complacent for some time. That typically meant subjecting himself to a series of boasts, or the complaints; insults to his own person, hearing about Joffrey and Tommen’s inadequacies, vile words hurled at his mother, the talk about how Myrcella would grow up the same. And Curufin would have to hold his tongue. He hadn’t been able to keep his peace for almost two years now, but once he was good about it. He could do so again.

If there was one role Curufin could play perfectly, it was the dutiful son.

Their meticulous plan though, their well-executed routine, was interrupted as they jogged towards the tent flap and Lancel barreled out and right in Caranthir’s chest. The sniveling, arrogant boy bounced off his brother, and Curufin sneered. He _hated_ Lancel, and he hated that Caranthir called him ‘brother’. It was on old, simmering animosity, fostered when they were still young boys scuffling with each other behind their nurse’s back. Lancel— a boy with all the arrogance of a _first son_ and all the worth of a mouse— scowled when he noticed who he’d collided and batted at Caranthir as he stumbled back.

Moryo just rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Lancel demanded, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t need you hovering over my shoulder like Mother, I can actually do my damn job!” Despite his demands, Lancel looked near tears and his hair was mussed like he’d taken a swipe to the head. Despite himself, Curufin had to grimace in sympathy. 

“We’re just bringing pre-victory congratulations to His Majesty, Lancel. I’ll leave the squire work to you, wherever you’re going. But, Seven, what are you doing? Lancel. Tyrek’s sure as hell not around to dress the king, you should be— Ow!” 

Caranthir turned to glare at Curufin following having his foot stomped on. Curufin just glared right back. Having Lancel gone was a blessing not to be questioned, seeing as the underhanded, overreaching second son liked to collect any possible misdeeds of Caranthir’s he could in order to tattle to their father. Not to mention, Caranthir’s typically-discreet manner tended to be tossed aside when he was scolding their various cousins about ‘duty’ and ‘work’, especially about being a squire. Caranthir had taken his job as Robert Baratheon’s squire very seriously— far more so than Father had— and could not stand Lancel slacking or making mistakes. It made them fight often.

Caranthir seemed to get Curufin’s hint after a moment, and flushed with shame. Luckily, Lancel hadn’t noticed the suspicious nature of their bickering in his own anger. 

“I have to go fetch a breastplate stretcher because Lord Stark says—” Lancel cried as loudly as he dared, waving his arms, before he was interrupted by their simultaneous exclamations.

“Lord Stark?”

“Breastplate stretcher?”

Lancel startled, and he seemed to notice Curufin for the first time, looking slightly afraid. Cousins or not, close with his brother or not, Curufin was still the prince. But he didn’t have time for formalities or groveling right now, so Curufin simply crossed his arms and regarded Lancel contemptuously.

“There’s no such thing as a ‘breastplate stretcher,’” Curufin sneered.

“What?”

“There is no such thing… as a breastplate stretcher,” Curufin repeated. “His Majesty has sent you on a fool’s quest, likely just to get you out of his sight.” 

Lancel let out a keening whine, and slumped. “Now what?” he begged, well aware that one shouldn’t just return to the king without fulfilling his task, but also aware that he couldn’t accuse the king of being wrong or a liar about what he was sent to fetch. 

Caranthir solved the dilemma for him. 

“What you’re going to do is go sit tight with Tyrek for the rest of the day, and we’ll handle King Robert for you,” Caranthir easily commanded, and Lancel nodded though, he looked sour about it. “Now, you said Lord Stark was in there.”

“Aye. Stark and Selmy both. I think Stark’s going to try to stop the king from fighting.”

Caranthir and Curufin traded looks again.

“You know I hate it when you do that!” Lancel whined, but he was tired and miserable, and when Caranthir shooed him away, Lancel went. 

“Now what?” Curufin muttered, because Lord Stark being present was a problem. Could they slip them both the dreamwine? There was no way they could offer a drink to the king and not the Hand. Maybe they could pass it off as Baratheon and Stark indulging like the old friends they were, misguidedly reliving their youth. But Stark had sharper wits than the king, he might catch on to them. Curufin didn’t yet know how lenient the new Hand would be towards the schemes of the Crown Prince; he would guess that the answer was ‘not as lenient as Arryn’.

But Caranthir opted for none of those options, and instead dragged Curufin to the side of the king’s pavilion. They kneeled and settled against a cloth wall and leaned in close, just listening. The voices of those inside were crystal clear, and they were just in time to hear the king say, “Get out. Get out before I kill you.”

Father’s voice was so cold and distant Curufin shuddered. The king had… well, he had spoken to Curufin in a variety of unpleasant ways, but never like that. He spoke with such quiet power he sounded like a true king, something that only ever happened about once a year. It was a sobering sound.

The next moment Barristan Selmy came marching out of the tent— Stark nowhere to be seen— and he glanced to the right. Caranthir and Curufin scrambled away, trying to slip further between the pavilions and out of Selmy’s line of sight, but their attempts were for naught. He’d already spotted them, and he gave a soft chuckle, at which they both froze. Curufin remained silent in his half-crouch, meeting Selmy’s amused gaze steadily but with a fair amount of trepidation. The Lord Commander also glanced at Caranthir and the unmarked bottle at their feet, and he raised an eyebrow. Curufin and Caranthir continued to say nothing.

At length, though, Selmy smiled, and shook his head in a gesture that was almost… fond. 

As Selmy turned and left without calling attention to them, Curufin breathed a sigh of relief. He turned his attention back to Father’s conversation with Stark.

“—never so alive as when I won the throne, and so dead as now that I’ve won it. And Cersei… I have Jon Arryn to thank for her. I had no wish to marry after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir. Cersei Lannister would be a good match, he told me, she would bind Lord Tywin to me should Viserys Targaryen ever try to win back his father’s throne… I loved that old man, I swear it, but now I think he was a bigger fool than Moon Boy. Oh, Cersei is lovely to look at, truly, but _cold_ … the way she guards her cunt—”

Curufin stopped being able to listen for a moment, a buzzing in his ears. He was caught between the careful, wide distance between him and the queen, and the inescapable knowledge that she had given birth to him. In at least some capacity. Caranthir’s hand on his back steadied him in time to be shaken again.

“You love your children, don’t you?” Father asked Ned Stark, and Curufin felt his heart squeeze tighter than he would have thought possible. This time he couldn’t stop listening if he tried.

“With all my heart,” Stark replied.

“Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that’s what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of poor Curufin on the throne, with Cersei and her family standing behind him whispering in his ear. Joffrey… you don’t know him like I do, Ned. I worry for Curufin being here all alone. The boy’s as stubborn as I am, makes me love him as much as I want to bash his head in sometimes, and he’s far cleverer than I. But he’s just a boy. My boy, even when Cersei guarded the other children so jealously, my boy has a storm in him. And Cersei, Joffrey, they’ve been trying to snuff it out from the beginning, in their own ways. I can’t leave him to that yet. But when your daughter and my son wed, that will be when I take off across the sea! But I can’t leave him alone yet.”

Lord Stark began to reply, something reassuring and sensible, no doubt. But Curufin didn’t hear a word of it. He was too busy sitting down heavily and staring into the grass. 

_Father loves me._ Of course, he’d not quite said it. Not in so many words. But it was implied. Surely. _Father loves me, and not Joffrey or Mother, or even Myrcella and Tommen._ And Father had sworn not to leave Curufin yet. That, more than anything, made Curufin fall backwards onto the ground in relief. The man was a damn fool, but Father loved him, and wouldn’t abandon him. 

A knot of stress in his chest that was old and tangled unravelled all at once. But he didn’t feel happy. Only relieved, and exhausted. 

Caranthir sat back as well eventually, likely when the conversation grew boring.

“Well,” he said lightly, sharp eyes wandering over Curufin’s face, noting his emotional moment but choosing not to comment, “I think this problem solved itself. We probably won’t be needing the Dreamwine anymore. Think we can use it for something else?”

“That’s very naughty of you both.”

Caranthir and Curufin jumped up, and Curufin’s breath caught in his throat. To their left stood Lord Varys, adorned in soft purple and a knowing smile. “But it seems Lord Stark has solved this problem, and saved the king’s life from those who would seek to end it. That’s very good, but you still ought to be more careful when listening to conversations that are not your own. These are dangerous times. So, leave the whispers to the masters, please. It is not as if you don’t have brothers who can do that for you, Your Grace.”

Curufin felt his lips mouth the word ‘brothers’, before shooting a quick glance at Caranthir. But Caranthir was attempting to look stone-faced, while actually coming off as morbidly curious. He hadn’t broken gazes with Varys. 

“But speaking of, Ser Maedhros is about to call on the Hand. You might be able to intercept him without him giving you the slip, finally, if you act right now. Well, that’s all. Do have a nice day, Your Grace, and good luck, Ser Caranthir. ” Then, Varys was gone just as quickly as he’d arrived. 

“Seven hells,” Caranthir cursed softly, then proceeded to mumble out more nasty words about Varys and what he could go do to himself. Curufin paid it no mind as he turned to look out towards the fields, and immediately spotted a shock of red hair. He ran.

Fast as an arrow, Curufin darted towards Maedhros. He didn’t even notice Curufin as he drew near, and Maedhros only turned when his wrist was snatched. Curufin kept running, attempting to drag Maedhros between tents for some privacy, but found himself yanked back by the sheer difference in weight between them. Curufin stumbled back, and collided with his brother’s bulk, before being righted by two steady hands. He looked up at Nelyo’s unscarred, shocked face, and… and… he didn’t know what to do.

Celegorm was easy. Curufin had always loved Tyelkormo more than any of his brothers, loved him on the same level as he’d loved Feanor and Aikanaris and Tyelperinquar. The same way he loved Caranthir. Curufin had known instantly that he wanted to hold on to Celegorm— who he'd had to watch die— and never let go. It had been the same with the twins, Ambarussa who were _his_ little brothers, who had hurt and died and lost so much too young. But Maedhros was different. 

Curufin didn’t know if his brother still hated him; hated him like Nelyo and Curvo had hated each other at the end. Curufin did not want that, though… not even as it became increasingly, terrifyingly clear that Maedhros did hate Curufin Baratheon.

Why else would he avoid Curufin at every turn?

Maedhros reeled back from Curufin, jerking his hands away as if burned. He seemed to loom, and Curufin couldn’t remember if his brother had always looked this gigantic. Maedhros’s head almost blocked out the sun, casting him in an eerie glow as they silently regarded each other. Curufin was seized with the desire to run away from this encounter as quickly as he’d charged towards it. 

The stand-off between the first and the favoured sons was shattered as Caranthir came near, calling, “Maedhros!”

His name seemed to shake Maedhros from his revery, and he took another step back, which let the sun’s light shine right into Curufin’s eyes. He jerked back, briefly blinded.

“I have to go quickly,” Maedhros muttered, which Curufin heard but didn’t see. 

He rubbed at his eyes and returned to the conversation just in time to watch Caranthir bite his lip and ask, “What’s wrong?”

“A man is dead,” Maedhros declared gravely, not wasting a single word or second. “Ser Hugh of the Vale, Jon Arryn’s former squire. I’ve been running around all morning trying to find what I can, but it looks like he just went quietly in his sleep.”

“But that’s not really it, it is,” Caranthir said, rather than asked, as Curufin numbly slunk back to his side.

“No. Someone’s stolen Dreamwine from the Maester’s stores, so I highly doubt that.” Caranthir and Curufin drew in simultaneous gasps, and Curufin was assaulted with the acute feeling that he’d just been caught in Atar’s workshop unattended. “Now I have to go and speak to Lord Stark, and then…” Maedhros trailed off, looking uncertain and vaguely ill. 

“Wait, Maedhros—” Caranthir started, but he was quickly interrupted as Maedhros finally decided on his course of action.

“ _Then_ , there is at least one, but possibly four people who know what the hell is going on, and I’m tired of waiting for answers,” he declared, and Maedhros pushed past them both to stalk towards the king’s tent.

“Nelyo, stop!” Curufin pleaded, trying to draw his attention back, even as Caranthir went oddly silent. “Wait! You have to understand, it was—” 

“Be quiet,” Maedhros snapped at him, and Curufin halted on instinct. In that moment, Maedhros’s eyes flashed dangerously and his face grew cold as he met Curufin’s gaze for the first since Doriath. And it was a piercing, accusatory gaze. Maedhros stared as if with one look he could rip out and display all if Curufin’s sins. Maedhros looked… he looked… like he’d just called for Dior’s head.

Curufin went unnaturally still and silent, and his breath drew short. He lowered his gaze.

Then Maedhros sighed and the terrifying moment faded, but their brother was walking away. “Be safe, the both of you,” he called over his shoulder without meeting their eyes, “Maglor will meet you in Dorne. Please try to keep the peace while you’re guests in someone else’s realm!”

Curufin didn’t think that was very funny, but he couldn’t tell Maedhros. Their eldest brother was already gone.

Silently, Caranthir and Curufin looked at one another, and Curufin wondered if his face was as ashen as Moryo’s was red. Without a word, Caranthir uncorked the mead bottle still in his hands, and he upturned it. They watched silently as it all trickled out, the honey-sweet Dreamwine and their stupid, childish plan. 

A man was dead in the Red Keep. Jon Arryn, Bran Stark… Father. Varys said someone had tried to kill Father by making him fight? All those people were dead or almost dead, while Curufin was… What was he doing at this point?

Wrestling with himself, while men died and his brothers fought to unearth a lurking plot that threatened Curufin’s family.

_This isn’t a game anymore_ , Curufin thought to himself, grim. And a little frightened. 

This was no longer a matter of riddles and punches and stolen dessert. Their problems were not as petty and their solutions not as clever as they had once thought; the smithing, Sansa Stark, their childhood attempts at policing their relatives with a poison, none of it was really that important. Curufinwë Atarinkë and Curufin Baratheon weren’t that important.

Summer was fading, and Curufin wasn’t any more prepared for it now as he was when they had crossed the sea. Feanor hadn’t been prepared for the stakes at play, for a world that hadn’t cared about their plans and intentions, nor what they were and were not willing to sacrifice. 

Curufinwë Atarinkë hadn’t been prepared to lose. He hadn’t thought it possible, like a little boy in a grown man’s body thinking the Song owed him something. He’d cracked under the slightest bit of pressure, just like Curufin almost had in the past months. 

But experience and wisdom was in Curufin Baratheon’s favour this time, and a Mannish spirit could be fixed far more practically than any Elf’s could.

Curufin closed his eyes, and he could see in his mind’s eye a hammer mending the rift that had been ripping him open for so long. He would have to be made strong for their first test in Dorne. And all the tests thereafter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little concerned about how easily writing Curufin comes to me. This, of course, does not imply I have any control over him. I do not. He goes off on wild, un-planned, emotional tangents that have plot-relevant consequences more than anyone else, and then I have to deal with that. Yay?
> 
> On the bright side, Curufin's working towards some peace. I'm glad for him, bless him, he's the only one. Ain't that a twist of fate, that Curvo's the one getting his life together? But there's still much to come to disrupt everything, including but not limited to: The murder of Jon Arryn, the Secret™, the Secret™ 2.0, meeting up with Maglor, the schemes of vipers and dragons, and last but not least the zombies (I have... critiques about how the show handled that, among other things). Fun times ahead!
> 
> We are finally gonna link up with Ambarussa next time, and see how these naughty children are getting on at Dragonstone! Thank you so much for reading, and for any comments or kudos you feel inclined to leave.


End file.
